


Ghosts that we knew

by stjarna



Series: The ghosts no one knew [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate post-Maveth story, Angst, Bus Kids - Freeform, F/M, Love, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sequel, Some bus kids, Song Lyrics, Will get fluffy eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjarna/pseuds/stjarna
Summary: A sequel to "No One Knows But You". After six months alone on an alien planet, Jemma returns home. But the demons she faced on Maveth don't leave her alone as she struggles with PTSD.The title is a reference to the song “Ghosts that we knew” by Mumford & Sons. Like "No One Knows But You" by Beth Nielsen Chapman, it is a song so sad and hopeful and beautiful that it brings me close to tears every time I hear it. The lyrics and links to videos are posted in chapter 2.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the wonderful dilkirani for the beta!
> 
> The Prologue (Chapter 1) is identical with the final part of "No One Knows But You." If you have (recently) read the prequel, skip directly to Chapter 2.

Her body smashes against the bulletproof glass of the crate and forces the half-closed door to swing open. She falls to the concrete floor. Her head is spinning, her body is aching, the air feels heavy, gravity lighter. A shotgun is lying next to her on the floor. She tries to sit up and stares at the monolith inside its crate. She scrambles up and runs towards it. She slams the door shut, frantically tries to close the locks until she notices that they’ve been shot to pieces. She leans forward against the glass, breathing heavily, while tears start streaming down her face.

“Jemma!”

She turns around. Her mind still unsure whether she can trust what she sees. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she had taken that final step into the beautiful serene abyss of her canyon, and everything else was just a vision. Or worse, maybe she was dreaming, about to wake up back on the other side of the galaxy, back in hell.

She sees Coulson, Hunter, and Skye, staring at her with wide-open eyes. Then she sees him. Sitting on the floor. Mack kneeling next to him, resting his hand on Fitz’s shoulder. Bobbi kneeling on his other side. They’re all looking at her, staring, shocked faces. And yet she’s afraid that they’re looking through her. That’s she is not actually there. That  _they’re_  not actually there.

Slowly, Fitz uses the wall to pull himself up.

She can’t move. Too afraid that any movement, any breath could make it all disappear.

“Jemma,” he repeats quietly, tears in his eyes.

He starts walking towards her. Slowly. The other figures in the room become blurry, out of focus. All she sees is him. She looks at his face, then his feet. Watches every step he takes. Her hands reach behind her, and she feels the thick, cold glass against her palms. With every step, her heart starts to beat faster. He stops a few feet in front of her. His eyes seem to be staring into her soul, pleading with her to be allowed to step closer. She had missed his eyes for so long, had longed for his touch. She wants to grant him permission to take that final step, and yet she’s petrified to reach out her hands, petrified to touch him and only grab thin air. Her back is pressed against the glass crate. She looks into his eyes, tries to absorb some of the serenity, some of the strength that they’re emanating. She forces her body to react, forces her trembling hands to reach out for him. He takes one last step and grabs her hands. He pulls her closer, pulls her into reality, pulls her into safety, into his embrace. Her arms reach around his neck and his wrap around her body.

She hangs on to him and breathes in the familiar scent. She presses her body against his, tries to eliminate any space between them, tries to melt into him so that no force of the universe can separate them again. She feels his tears on her shoulder, tastes her own salty tears on her dry, cracked lips.

“Please, be you,” she sobs, “please be you.” She repeats it over and over as her hands run through his hair, across his shoulders, as her fingers touch his neck, his cheeks, as she feels his stubbles prickly against her fingertips, “Please be you.”

And he holds her. One hand reaches for the back of her head, stroking her hair gently, while his other arm is tightly wrapped around her waist, steadies her, brings her closer.

“It’s me,” he whispers, “It’s me, Jemma. I promise. I’m here. You’re here. You’re here.” She can feel how he tries to intensify his embrace even more, like he’s reassuring himself of her presence as much as he tries to reassure her. “You’re here,” he whispers once again, and she allows herself to trust his words, to relax in his arms.


	2. Musical prelude: "Ghosts that we knew" by Mumford & Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly, strongly suggest you listen to this song. Seriously, it's so gorgeous!
> 
> This is a link to a live version, https://youtu.be/dlxZVp0aLW0 .... but there might be issues viewing it from some countries, in which case, try this link to the studio version (just ignore the lyrics posted in the description to the video on youtube, 'cause they're not quite correct IMHO ;) ): https://youtu.be/IUVCISbpHuE

_You saw my pain, washed out in the rain_  
_Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins_  
_But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart  
_ _And you knelt beside my hope torn apart_

_But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view  
_ _And we'll live a long life_

_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_'Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hope as long as you like  
_ _Just promise me we’ll be alright_

_So lead me back_  
_Turn south from that place  
_ _And close my eyes to my recent disgrace_

_'Cause you know my core_  
_And will share my all  
_ _And our children come, they will hear me roar_

_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_'Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hope as long as you like  
_ _Just promise me we'll be alright_

_Hold me still,_  
_Bury my heart on the coals_  
_Hold me still,  
_ _Bury my heart next to yours._

_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_'Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hold on with all of my might,  
_ _Just promise me we'll be alright_

_But the ghosts that we knew made us black and/or blue  
_ _But we'll live a long life_

_And the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view  
_ _And we'll live a long life_


	3. Turn south from that place

For a moment, she forgets the world around her, forgets what she was about to do minutes earlier; she allows herself to be alive, right here, feeling safe, feeling warm, feeling _home_.

It startles her when she notices another hand on her back. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her head from Fitz’s shoulder. Her cheek feels cold as the air brushes against her tear-soaked skin. She has to force her eyes open, still afraid everything that just happened could evaporate to nothingness. When her eyes finally comply, tears cloud her vision; tears, little flashes of light, and the dark silhouette of a sun that had blinded her only moments ago; a sun she had started to believe didn’t even exist.

Through this curtain of tears and the ghost of a distant sun, she sees Skye looking at her with shock and warmth, struggling to hold back her own tears. Skye gently strokes Jemma’s back and this simple gesture reels Jemma further into safety, further into acceptance that she is not dreaming.

Fitz steps aside, breaking their embrace to allow her to see everything  hidden from her view. A shiver runs through her body as his warmth disappears, and her hand reaches intuitively for his bicep, grabbing it tightly, ensuring that she doesn’t lose physical contact with him entirely. He doesn’t resist and keeps one arm wrapped around her waist.

The artificial lighting in the room makes her eyes burn, but she doesn’t allow herself to close them again. She wants to see everything, _has to_ see everything. Hunter and Bobbi are standing slightly to one side. Bobbi is smiling at her, chin quivering, eyes shimmering and watery. Slowly Jemma turns her head and sees Coulson and Mack.

Then she notices the silence. Her own heart—beating frantically inside her chest—seems to be the only source of sound. Nobody has spoken a word. Fear creeps up once more, pushing her back to doubting the reality of her surroundings. Jemma tightens her grip on Fitz’s arm, while her other hand begins to tremble. Fitz pulls her a little closer, and it steadies her, calms her.

She barely thought it possible, but her heart beats even faster when she sees Coulson taking a few steps toward her, when she sees Mack, Bobbi, and Hunter follow suit.

Slowly her team, her colleagues, her friends come closer, until they surround her in a half-circle.

“It’s good to see you, Jemma,” Coulson says. He smiles at her, but the tone of his voice is less composed and calm than she remembers. Jemma bites her lower lip but can’t stop the flood of tears streaming down her face. Her eyes wander feverishly from person to person: Mack, Coulson, Hunter, Bobbi, Skye, Fitz. Back and forth. Her free hand is twitching, wanting to reach out and touch them, needing final proof. _They’re real,_ she reassures herself, over and over again. _They’re real._

“We should get you to the medical bay,” Bobbi says, smiling encouragingly, “Can you walk?”

Jemma nods, only to realize that her body doesn’t want to comply. She tries to will her legs to move, but finally has to admit defeat and shakes her head.

She feels Fitz move and grabs his arm even tighter, afraid to lose their connection. But instead of letting her go, his free arm slides underneath her knees and he picks her up. Intuitively, she reaches around his neck and allows her head to rest against his chest. She closes her eyes and inhales his scent, absorbing all the  warmth he can give her. A sense of serenity overcomes her as he carries her down the narrow corridor of the base.


	4. They gave me such a fright

Her body sinks down onto the soft mattress, as Fitz lays her down on a bed in the medical bay. His left arm slowly glides from underneath her upper back, and her hand that was resting on his shoulder slides down his arm and grabs his wrist. Her eyes plead with him not to let go. He takes her hand between his and places a gentle kiss against her fingertips. The gesture tells her that he’s not going anywhere. A smile flashes across her face at the sight of him holding her hand, looking down at her. Something in his eyes, something in his touch tells her that he is just as afraid of breaking their connection as she is.

The adrenaline that had rushed through her body—keeping it working, tense, alert—is slowly fading, and her fight-or-flight response is being replaced by exhaustion and drowsiness. Her eyes start to flutter and it becomes harder to focus. She hears a sudden high-pitched ringing in her ears as the room starts spinning around her.

“Jemma?” Fitz steps closer, leaning slightly over her, “Can you hear me?” His hand touches her cheek. “Bobbi,” he says and lifts his head, “I think she’s about to lose consciousness!”

His voice sounds muffled, like an echo, but trying to hear what he says reduces the ringing in Jemma’s ears. The room seems to spin a bit less as her eyes focus on his.

“Jemma?”

She turns her head slightly to look at Bobbi, who is smiling down at her, leaning on the bed with both hands, “I’d like to give you something to relax, okay? Allow you to rest, sleep a little, while we get some fluids going and run some blood tests, scans. You okay with that?”

Jemma closes her eyes. “1.5 mg of mid… midazolam… intravenously, saline solution … … anti…biotics, …” she whispers as her brain intuitively retrieves medical data. Her own voice sounds so strange and hoarse.  

Bobbi chuckles. “Let me be the physician for a change, will you? Relax.”

Jemma opens her tired eyes and nods. She watches Bobbi prepare the midazolam.

“There you go,” Bobbi says, gently squeezing Jemma’s arm once she has administered the injection. “Should kick in quickly. Time to rest.”

A sudden nervousness overcomes Jemma. She looks back at Fitz and tightens her grip on his hand. He smiles at her and brings his face closer to hers.

“What?” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t disappear,” she pleads.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replies softly, his voice trembling. “I promise.”

His words make her smile, and she allows herself to get lost in the blue of his eyes, which shimmer glassily in front of her. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

It only takes a few minutes until exhaustion and the sedative allow her body to drift off to sleep. 

* * *

_They’re walking towards her. Slowly. The visors of their helmets reflect the two moons. She spins around, but they’re everywhere, surrounding her. Their steps are heavy. She looks up and the portal opens above her in the sky. A hand reaches down for her. She tries to grab it, to let it pull her to safety, home. But a sudden gust of wind blows up the sand, like a towering wall, a dome around her. No escape. She is frightened, trapped, with nowhere to run. They come closer. One step. Another. Suddenly their helmets disappear. They’re staring at her with featureless faces, yet she recognizes them. Blood is streaming down Daniels’ face from a single gunshot wound in his temple. Austin is inching closer, his skull smashed in, his body distorted, broken bones poking through his skin. Brubaker’s face is scarred from the fire that burnt him, his hair singed off. Taylor’s head is awkwardly angled, as if someone had snapped his neck. The wind seems to carry their ghostly faces closer to her. She hears their breathing, wheezing, like the wind whispering through the cracks of the hatch. Their limbs turn to sand, rushing towards her, grabbing her. She tries to scream, but no sound escapes her lips._

* * *

Her eyes shoot open and her heart is racing when she finally wakes up. The lights are blinding her, and a rhythmic fast beeping tone is hammering against her eardrum. She attempts to sit up, struggling for air. She looks around frantically, disoriented, unable to really discern her surroundings. She’s trying to figure out where she is, what is real, and what are lingering images from her nightmare when a loud bang draws her attention. Fitz is standing next to her, seemingly in the same spot as before, although her eyes catch a glimpse of a chair behind him that has fallen over.

“It’s okay, Jemma,” he says with concern and fear in his eyes, as his hand gently strokes hers. “You’re safe. …. Breathe…. breathe.”

She gazes into his eyes and lets the rhythm of her breathing sync with his. Slowly her heart calms down, and she finally notices that the beeping tone is coming from her heart rate monitor.

“Look who woke up!”

The voice booms in her sensitive ears. Startled, she looks to the foot of the bed and sees Coulson standing there, his hands resting on the bedframe.

She squints to give her blinded eyes some rest and pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand. She feels a sting, and when she opens her eyes to look, she sees the IV needle and fluid line. Her head feels foggy and her hand starts trembling in front of her eyes. She tries to reach for her ear, tries to drown out the noises, tries to concentrate. The beeping seems to be getting louder, the lights brighter. She tries to convince herself not to hyperventilate, but her body won’t obey.

“Bobbi, can you turn off the heart rate monitor,” she hears Fitz say calmly, “and… and the lights… at least some of them. I think her senses are over-stimulated.”

Jemma looks at him and her lips mouth a silent _Thank you_.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath when the painful beeping of the heart rate monitor stops. Her eyes welcome the dim light in the room when they reopen.

“Better?” Bobbi asks, stepping closer to the bed.

She nods. “How long did I sleep?” she asks and rubs her aching forehead.

“About 5 hours and with _this one_ practically glued to your hand,” Bobbi says, gesturing at Fitz with her head. “Enough time to run some initial tests.”

Jemma looks over at Fitz. She remembers sitting next to _him_ , holding _his_ hand, as his pale unconscious body lay in a hospital bed for 211 hours. No one could convince _her_ to leave back then. It had felt like an eternity, and yet it didn’t even begin to compare to the hours they had been separated in the past six months; in which imagining talking to him was all she could do. She wonders if he had done the same.

“Jemma,” Coulson interrupts her thoughts. “We certainly don’t want to push you. But we need some initial answers. We found sand in your hair and under your fingernails. … Carbon dating shows that it predates Earth by a billion years.”

“Fitz thinks it means that the monolith is a portal to a different planet, different solar system,” Bobbi adds, “A crack in space-time… is that how you phrased it, Fitz?”

“He’s right,” Jemma mumbles. “Different atmosphere, different levels of oxygenation, different microgravity.”

“Well,” Bobbi continues, “that explains the sensitivity to sound and light. Cardiovascular, inner ear, respiratory all got used to being… not here.”

All Jemma can do is nod.

“Your lab results indicate severe dehydration, oxidative stress, vitamin D deficiency, upper-respiratory irritation… Name a deficiency and you probably have it right now,” Bobbi notes.

“Not surprising,” Jemma whispers weakly.

“Jemma,” Coulson says to get her attention, “do you have _any_ idea where you were?”

“No,” she replies and bites her lower lip to hold back tears. “But it felt like hell.”

“Maveth… death,” Fitz says and glances over at Coulson and Bobbi.

 Jemma doesn’t understand what he means, but she’s too tired and worn out to care.

“Well, you’re home now, Jemma,” Coulson says, placing his hand reassuringly on top of the blanket covering her feet. “Bobbi will keep monitoring your physical health, and I’ve got a call in to Dr. Garner. Your mental health is just as important. We won’t push you, okay? But know that we’re all here.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Alright,” Bobbi says, “I want to push at least one more bag of fluids and keep her under observation for a few more hours. I suggest we get one of the isolation rooms ready, Sir.”

“Fitz designed them,” she adds for Jemma’s benefit.

“Poly-tectic adaptive materials. Entirely customizable,” Fitz mutters shyly.

“Yes,” Bobbi picks up again, “I think you’ll be impressed. We can adjust the ambient environment exactly to what you need--light levels, noise levels, even oxygen and gravity.”

Bobbi turns to Coulson. “Sir, maybe Daisy could get some of Jemma’s clothes and take them to the isolation room? I don’t think I can pry Fitz away from her.”

“I’ll let her know,” Coulson says and turns to leave. “Get some more rest. That’s an order, Simmons.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replies, managing a smile.

“I’ll get another bag of fluids,” Bobbi notes. Jemma eyes follow her as she exits the room.

“I’ll… I’ll just pick up my chair,” Fitz says, making her look in his direction. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I jumped up when you woke up, and it, uh, fell over.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, smiling reassuringly.

Almost nervously, he lets go of her hand. He quickly grabs the chair and pulls it close to the bed. He sits down and his hands reach for hers again, squeezing gently.

“Fitz?”

“Yes?”

“Did _you_ open the portal?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t even sure if it _was_ a portal, Jemma.” He stares down at their interlaced hands. “You should have heard some of my theories.”

“Then why were you all there when I came through?” Her question makes him look up again. “And… and the shotgun. There was a shotgun, right? The locks on the crate were… broken.”

She senses his hesitation and doesn’t say anything else, hoping that her pleading eyes keep asking on her behalf.

He takes a deep breath and turns his head slightly, avoiding her eyes, “We were there because I … couldn’t give up on you.” He pauses. “I will tell you everything later. I promise, Jemma. But for now, let that be enough. Please?”

“Okay,” she whispers, tears in her eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t give up on me.”

“Never.”


	5. You saw my pain, washed out in the rain

The sliding doors at the end of the corridor open, revealing the large isolation room. The walls have the same beehive structure as the ones they had used for the Cage on the Bus, but everything is white instead of grey. Large light fixtures in the corners and on the ceiling bathe the room in a cool, dim light. 

Jemma looks around: a table with two chairs and a double bed against the left wall, a small comfortable sitting area to the right, a big screen on the wall showing a waterfall in a forest setting, a door at the far end, and right next to the entrance what appears to be an escape pod, only significantly larger.

Bobbi steps inside and turns around to face Jemma and Fitz. “Alright. This thing here,” she slaps the large pod next to the entrance with her hand, “is one of our portable containment units. Can be transported straight to and from the Zephyr.” She spins around her own axis once, gesturing at the large room like a realtor pitching the perfect house to a buyer. “And this is the rest. Home-sweet-home for as long as you want. Top-notch, state-of-the-art Scottish engineering and craftsmanship. I’ll leave it to Fitz to fascinate you with the technical details.”

Fitz follows Bobbi into the room. His left hand is carrying a tablet, his right hand never letting go of Jemma’s hand, pulling her carefully into the room. 

“I dimmed the lights, and it’s soundproof,” he tells her quietly. “I also adjusted the oxygen level slightly based on your blood analysis.” He allows her to take in the room for a moment before continuing, “I can adjust gravity, too; just wasn’t sure if you needed it stronger or weaker compared to Earth.”

Jemma lets go of his hand and ventures into the room by herself. Her fingers trace the outline of one of the hexagons on the wall. It doesn’t feel like pure silicon-carbide Vibranium alloy. “Poly-tectic adaptive materials, you said?” she asks.

“Yes,” Fitz replies humbly. “Your idea, remember? Developing a material that could adapt to different inhuman powers.”

“I remember,” Jemma replies absentmindedly, still taking in the beauty of the scientific masterpiece. “But it was just an idea... This is nothing short of extraordinary, Fitz.”

“Told you you’d be impressed,” Bobbi chimes in. “And we definitely needed something like this to accommodate the influx of new Inhumans.”

“New Inhumans?” Jemma asks, confused.

“Yeah,” Bobbi explains, “the terrigen crystals that dropped to the bottom of the ocean during the battle on the aircraft carrier dissolved and the terrigen got into the ecosystem… There’ve been an increasing number of unsuspecting people going through terregenisis and virtually all of them can be traced back to fish oil capsules. So far it’s only in the continental U.S., but it could be spreading further. Fitz and I have been running some computer simulations. It’s a bit of an outbreak…”

She’s struggling to process the information Bobbi has given her: an Inhuman outbreak; people transforming without any clue as to what is happening to them. Her mind creates scenario after scenario. She imagines chaos, danger, fear, paranoia.

“Maybe we can save bringing her up to speed for later?” Fitz suggests quietly, and Jemma welcomes him interrupting her racing thoughts.

“Of course,” Bobbi replies. “You’re right. Sorry, Jemma. That must have been a bit overwhelming.”

“No. It’s quite alright,” Jemma shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head, unwilling to admit to herself as much as to them that Bobbi is right.

“Look,” Bobbi changes the topic. “I want to stress that this room is for  _ you _ , not us. I think it’ll help you to adjust to being back home… But whenever you feel ready to leave or venture out, go right ahead, okay? Door’s always open.”

Jemma nods. “Thank you.”

“Daisy said she left some clothes in the bathroom for you,” Bobbi continues. “Figured you’d want to shower. She also said she’ll bring some food over. Wants to get a chance to say hi.”

Bobbi turns to leave before pausing and smiling at Jemma. “I’ll pop back in later,” she promises.

Jemma turns her back on the door once Bobbi has left and notices Fitz, who is standing quietly to one side.

“You okay?” he asks, taking a step closer.

Jemma takes a deep breath. “It’s a lot to process,” she says, staring at the floor.

She looks back up when his right hand touches her upper arm, rubbing it gently, “I know it’s not really in your nature, Jemma, but … don’t worry about any of that right now, okay? Or, well…  _ try _ not to.”

She chuckles and nods. “I will try.”

She studies his face, the look of concern in his blue, gentle eyes, how he nervously bites his lower lip. He takes a deep breath, and rubs the back of his neck, “So… umm… Do you want to take a shower?” He gestures to the door at the far end of the room. “Bathroom’s right there.”

“That would be lovely, I think,” she admits. “You don’t mind waiting here, do you?”

“Not at all,” he replies and lifts his left hand, holding the tablet. “I’ve got plenty of reading materials right here.”

* * *

The lights in the bathroom are dim and warm.  _ He adjusted them perfectly _ , she thinks. She hadn’t mentioned that except for that one final moment, eternal night lived on the planet she was forced to inhabit for the past six months. Yet he had read her like an open book, had known that the sounds and lights around her overstimulated her senses.

On a chair next to the door lie a pair of sweatpants, a simple grey long-sleeved shirt, clean underpants, socks, and a basic black bra. On top of the clothes rest her shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, razor, brush, and a hairband. She smiles at the thoughtful gesture.

_ I’ll have to thank this Agent Daisy later _ , Jemma thinks.  _ She seems to be an important new member of S.H.I.E.L.D. _ .

She picks up the three plastic bottles, but her hand hesitates to grab the razor.

_ It was about two weeks after she had found the hatch when she discovered the old-fashioned barber knife and whetting stone in one of the backpacks. She had been apprehensive to rummage through the astronauts’ personal items; felt like she was intruding into their private lives; but soon she realized that she should take advantage of anything that could be useful for her survival. It seemed so vain at first, to consider her find such a treasure, but somehow, the ability to shave made her feel civilized, reminded her of her normal life. It became part of her routine: sitting outside by the edge of her camp, a low fire burning, a bucket of water by her side, carefully whetting the knife, allowing the sharp blade to slowly glide up her legs, down her armpits. It was strange to think that it had been one of the last things she had done before the screen of her phone went dark for the last time. _

She puts the shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel into the shower but leaves the razor lying on the chair.

She takes off her shoes and clothes. She had ripped off the sleeves of her beloved white blouse with the adorable circle pattern and turned her beautiful black fine-knit jacket into a shoulder bag. Her undershirt has holes in several places and the knees of her pants are ripped. Her thumb caresses the seam of her bra strap that she had to sew back on at some point. The rubber band of her panties has come loose in several places. Her boots are dirty and filled with sand. Carefully, she holds the rags that were once one of her favorite outfits in her hands and stares at the worn fabrics. Her feelings are a mix of anger, fear, and a strange sense of melancholic nostalgia. But the longer she looks at them, the more she is overcome by nausea. Frantically, she opens the trashcan under the sink and dumps the clothes and shoes inside. She closes the lid, holds it shut as if to ensure that they won’t be able to escape again, and breathes heavily. 

Slowly the panic subsides and she stands up to look in the mirror. For the first time in six months, she sees a reflection of herself that is not distorted by the waves of a black pond, not warped by the cracked and broken sphere of an astronaut’s helmet. Her hair is tangled, dry, and dirty. Her face is thin and ashen. Her skin looks rough and sanded. She looks down at her arms, covered in scratches and bruises, some healed and some fresh. Her fingers glide over her ribcage, each rib clearly visible, tangible. Her body starts to tremble and tears stream down her face as she realizes that she barely recognizes herself, that she is just a shadow of the person she once was.

She covers her eyes with her hands, closing them tightly, and tries to steady her breathing, tries to replace her sadness with determination. She is calmer when she looks back up.

She walks over to the shower, turns on the water and lets it run. The sound of the shower echoes in her ears. When she steps inside, the first hot drops of water make her gasp. They feel like little needles, penetrating her sensitive, thirsty skin. But the pain quickly subsides, morphs into a feeling of pleasure. She looks down at herself and watches the thin rivers of water trail down her naked body, collecting sand, dust, and dirt in a puddle by her feet that slowly flows toward the drain and disappears. She laughs as the last physical remains of her distant prison wash away. She reaches for her shower gel and opens the bottle. The scent of its perfume bites her nose, and she hesitates for a moment at the overpowering, chemical smell. She closes her eyes and inhales again, slower this time, to allow her nose to adjust, to remember how she had carefully chosen this product over all others for its subtle scent of cocoa butter.

She takes her time; enjoys every second, every drop of water touching her body, the silky feel of her shampooed and conditioned hair, the rediscovered softness of her skin. Hesitantly, she turns off the water and steps out of the shower tub. She grabs the towel hanging next to the shower and wraps herself in it. When she dries herself off, she watches as dead skin cells drop to the floor like little white pieces of ash. 

She lets her hand glide over the stack of fresh clothes and picks up the bra, looking at it from all sides. She had worn a bra for six months, hour after hour. It was the same rationale as with the razor: a reminder of civilization, of normalcy. But now that she’s back, it was as if her body wanted to be free, unrestrained.  _ How odd _ , she thinks, trying to find logic behind her own thoughts.

She leaves the bra and socks on the chair, only putting on the undies, sweatpants, and shirt, and looks at herself in the mirror. The clothes hang loosely around her emaciated, malnourished body, but she enjoys the feeling of the soft fabrics gently hugging her sensitive skin; the colors muted, grey, calm. Carefully, she uses the brush to untangle her wet hair before putting it into a loose ponytail. She re-inspects her reflection and smiles as she notices how different she looks compared to just 20 minutes earlier, how almost normal, human.

She turns around and for a moment stands quietly in front of the closed door. She inhales slowly, deeply, before opening it and stepping back into the main room. The white floor feels refreshingly cold against the soles of her naked feet.

* * *

Fitz is sitting in the lounge area and looks up from his tablet when he notices her exiting the bathroom. He gets up from his seat, leaving the tablet on the coffee table, and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“How was it?” he asks, a shy smile playing on his lips.

“It was …” she pauses.  _ Wonderful _ . It would be such an easy answer, a true answer, but somehow it doesn’t seem enough.

She doesn’t look at him, as her mind takes her back to the planet. Her mouth begins telling him a story, as if it wasn’t her decision to make, as if something else inside of her has decided that this story needed to surface, that it was something he needed to hear. 

“It didn’t rain for months on that planet,” she hears herself say. “It was a desert; barely any vegetation; everything so dry. And then… one day… I heard a noise.”

She pauses. “…And I didn’t know what it was.” She shakes her head slightly, “It wasn’t the wind. It was so much louder… and it … scared me in a way, but… I had to know what it was.”

Like a movie, the scene unravels before her. “When I climbed out of the cave, the raindrops hit my face… and at first I didn’t even know what it was.”

She lets out a brief laugh. “I had forgotten what rain felt like… And then… then I just stood there… in the rain.”

She closes her eyes as her body relives every emotion, every sensation of that moment. “I felt like a flower… like a plant… absorbing every little drop… and I felt so,” she chuckles, “ _ happy _ in that moment… like the rain washed out all the fear, all the pain, and loneliness.”

She reopens her eyes, as the happy feeling is replaced by anxiety. “But when it stopped, I… I felt so helpless, because there was nothing I could do to get it back… I was left to wait again.”

She takes a deep breath. “ _ Now _ .  _ Here _ . I felt like that flower again. And that same fear overcame me when I turned the water off… and then I realized that… I’m in control here.  _ I _ can turn it back on if I need to. That sounds strange, doesn’t it?” She laughs at her own statement that sounds so silly in her head and looks up.

She sees him wipe away a tear.

“No. It doesn’t. Not at all,” he says, stepping closer. “Jemma,” he pauses, inhaling slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, “I want you to know that I won’t push you. You don’t have to tell me anything. However much time you need. I just… I’m here… whatever you need, I’m here. I’ll listen. I’ll talk. I’ll… whatever you need.”

She smiles, trying to find the right words to reply when the sliding door interrupts her.

Skye, with her new shorter haircut, stands in the entrance carrying a food tray.

Suddenly, it dawns on Jemma, “Daisy.  _ You’re _ Daisy,” she chuckles, embarrassed that it had taken her so long. “You changed your name.”

“Yep,” Daisy replies shyly, still frozen to the spot by the sliding door. “A while ago. Daisy Johnson. Dunno. It … felt right. … But you can call me whatever you want.  _ Hell _ , Coulson’s had five months to get used to it and he still screws up about fifty percent of the time.”

“Daisy,” Jemma repeats quietly. “Of course. It’s beautiful. Suits you.” Barely above a whisper she mutters a regretful, “I’ve missed so much.”

“Well,” Daisy says energetically, stepping into the room, “I come bearing food!” She walks to the table and puts the tray down. “Hunter cooked.”

“ _ Hunter _ ?” Jemma exclaims, surprised.

“Bobbi assured me that he’s actually good at that,” Daisy replies. “So supposedly it’s edible.”

Jemma grins. “Supposedly?”

Daisy reaches for her back pocket. “I also brought this,” she says, pulling out a narrow black object. “Mack and his team found it in the room where the monolith is, and we figured…”

“My phone,” Jemma notices, surprised.

“Yeah,” Daisy says. “That’s what we thought.”

Jemma’s initial bewilderment slowly passes, as she remembers the last painful hours at the other end of the galaxy. “I was carrying it,” she mumbles quietly, more to herself than to the other two people in the room. “I … I forgot. The battery had died, but I … I took it with me…. I didn’t even notice.” 

She looks up at Daisy and Fitz. “The force of the impact when my body exited the portal and smashed against the glass must have flung it out of my hand.”

She stares at the phone in Daisy’s hand, the broken screen and scratched casing. Part of her brain wants to hold it in her hands, the only connection to home she had owned in her solitude. Almost instinctively, her hand reaches for the device. But the other part of her brain wants to keep her memories at bay, wants to forget the past six months. Slowly, her hand retracts before her fingers can touch the black surface.

“I could try to recover your data from it,” Fitz says. “If … if you want me to.”

Her eyes wander aimlessly through the room as the two sides of her brain try to come to an agreement. Finally, she takes a deep breath and says, “Maybe… it… it might help to explain everything.”

Fitz nods, “Okay.” He looks at Daisy, “Could you put it on my desk in the lab? I’ll work on it some other time.”

“Sure thing,” Daisy replies with a smile. “Well, … I’ll leave you guys to your dinner before it gets cold.”

Jemma smiles. “It was good seeing you, Sk…Daisy.”

“We’ll catch up more another time, okay?” Daisy pleads, her body halfway turned to face the door.

“I insist,” Jemma replies.

She watches as Daisy and Fitz exchange silent good-bye nods, before Daisy leaves the room and the sliding doors close behind her.

“Shall we eat?” Fitz asks, and Jemma turns back around to face him.

“Yes,” she replies. “Most definitely.”

They sit down at the table, and Fitz removes the plastic covers of the bowls. “Chicken noodle soup… I believe.”

Jemma nods knowingly. “It’s a good choice for my condition, really. Fluid, some protein, some carbohydrates, vegetables, just a bit of fat, easily digestible.”

“Well then,” Fitz says, picking up his spoon, “let’s see if Bobbi told the truth about Hunter’s cooking skills.”

With a mix of nervousness and excitement, Jemma picks up her spoon and dips it into the soup. She lifts it and observes the various ingredients. The golden broth is still steaming slightly; an orange piece of carrot swims in the center, next to white fibers of chicken. She blows on it briefly and lets the spoon disappear into her mouth. She closes her eyes and slowly pulls the spoon back out. Carefully, her teeth chew the small solid pieces of food, and when she swallows she can feel the warmth of the soup find its way to her stomach.

She opens her eyes and sees Fitz looking at her, a smile lingering on his lips, admiration in his eyes. “Do you realize that you just made eating soup look like an art form?”

She chuckles. “I think this may be the best soup I’ve ever tasted in my life.” She pauses, “Although, quite frankly, it’s been so long since I’ve eaten anything besides twigs and plants that raw carrots tossed in water probably would have tasted equally delicious.”

“Well, carrots and water… that’s kind of what soup is, anyway, right?” he jokes.

She laughs. Then her eyes wander from Fitz sitting across from her to the table with two bowls of soup between them, two glasses of water, some slices of toast. Her expression becomes serious.

“You okay?” Fitz asks, concerned.

She forces a smile. “Yes… it’s just… well… this is not exactly how I imagined our dinner.”

“Hey,” he says, reaching for her hand, which is resting on the table next to her plate, “this is  _ a _ dinner, not  _ our _ dinner.”

She looks into his eyes, emanating warmth and love, and can’t decide if what she sees makes her heart beat more calmly or excitedly. “Can it be a bit of both?” she asks him, unable to hide a smile. “It’s just… I’m a bit worried that something…”

“We  _ will _ have our dinner, Jemma,” he interrupts her, his thumb drawing little circles on the back of her hand. “I won’t let  _ anything _ or  _ anyone _ take that away from us again.”

She admires his determination and decides to make it her own. “Well, alright then.”

She picks up her spoon again and they continue to eat. She barely finishes half her soup when her stomach begins to cramp up uncomfortably. A bit saddened, she puts down her spoon.

Fitz looks up from his plate. “You done already?”

She nods. “Yes, I’m afraid my stomach will need more time to get used to real food again.”

“Right,” he replies, “That’s smart. You shouldn’t overdo it.”

“You go ahead and finish, though,” she suggests.

He nods and continues eating while she watches him quietly.

The sound of the sliding door startles her and she jumps up to face the door, breathing heavily. She exhales, relieved, and relaxes when she sees Bobbi standing in the doorway.

“Hey there,” Bobbi says cheerfully. “Sorry to interrupt. I just came to check in on the patient. … Food good?” she asks, gesturing towards the table with her head.

Jemma peeks back at the table and sees that Fitz has gotten up from his chair and is walking towards her. “It was delicious,” she says and turns back to face Bobbi. “Please thank Hunter for me.”

“He’ll be happy to hear that!” Bobbi replies. “Any grand plans for the rest of the evening?”

Jemma presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Not really… I believe eat, sleep, shower were the main things on my list.”

“Well, I say sleep should remain  _ on top _ of your list for a while longer,” Bobbi says and pauses. “Maybe Fitz and I should give you a chance to do just that. Give you some space.”

Bobbi’s suggestion involuntarily makes Jemma’s heart race; her muscles tense up, and her hands start to tremble; tears shoot into her eyes.

“No,” she exclaims panic-stricken. “Don’t. Don’t leave. Please. I don’t … please.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Fitz says, stepping closer and putting his hand on her shoulder, “I’ll stay.” She looks into his eyes, allowing herself to dive into the serenity of the blue ocean before her. “I’ll stay,” he repeats more quietly.

“I’m sorry, Jemma,” Bobbi’s voice pulls her back into the white room. “I don’t think I thought that all the way through. You had six months of alone time. I can’t believe I ignored that. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m really sorry.”

“No… no,” Jemma replies, her usual polite instincts crawling to the surface after months of hiding. “It’s okay. I …. I overreacted.”

“No, you didn’t,” Bobbi responds. “Look, I’ll take the tray with me, okay? Again, I’m sorry, Jemma.”

She quickly grabs the dinner tray and leaves the room.

Jemma rubs her face with both hands as the sliding doors close behind Bobbi. “Ugh. I’m such a mess. … Just the  _ mention _ of being alone makes me panic. It’s ridiculous,” she exclaims, frustrated and impatient with herself.

“No, it’s not,” Fitz says quietly, his hand still resting on her shoulder. “Why would it be? Don’t apologize. I … I didn’t want to leave anyway.”

“Oh, Fitz,” she looks at him and rolls her eyes, shaking her head in amusement.

“Seriously,” he replies sternly, but can’t hide a grin. He forms a fist and gestures at the door with his thumb, “She would have had to drag me out of here by my feet… Which admittedly, she could probably do, but…”

She laughs out loud, so genuinely hard that she has to hold her stomach, “Oh,” she lets out a happy sigh, “It feels good to laugh.”

“Just tell me what you need,” Fitz says, placing one hand on each of her shoulders.

“Well,” Jemma admits, “Bobbi was right. I’m tired. …  _ So _ tired.”

“Then sleep,” he says, and grabs her hand, gently pulling her with him towards the bed.

She looks down at it and chuckles.

“What?” Fitz asks, confused.

“A real bed,” she replies, “pillows, and soft sheets, and a blanket, and … no sand… no sand,” she repeats quietly and sighs, relieved.

He gently squeezes her hand. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll stay right here and read,” he gestures at the lounge area across from the bed.

She nods and slowly slips under the soft covers. She inhales the scent of the fabric softener and is grateful that its smell is subtle. Her eyes glance over at Fitz, who is sitting in an armchair facing the bed. Her heart beats a little quicker as she studies his features: his soft brown curls, his forehead slightly wrinkled in concentration, his straight nose. He has crossed his legs and started reading on his tablet, but for a second he looks up and smiles at her, as if he had heard her heart calling for him. She returns the smile and closes her eyes. Slowly, she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

_ She’s running from them, running towards the sunlight, running towards the portal, swirling black in front of her. But their hands reach for her, grabbing her feet, her legs. She falls to the ground, her face buried in the desert sand. She lifts her head. The landscape is bathed in the darkest of blues again as the sun suddenly disappears. She spits out sand, her fingers frantically trying to reach for the portal, only inches away. But they hold onto her, pull her, drag her away. She turns around, trying to kick her aggressors, trying to free herself. The wind picks up and she hears them whisper, “You think you got away. … But you didn’t. You became like us. You told us you were so much stronger, but you became like us. Desperate. A coward. Only one way out … Just because you left the planet doesn’t mean you got away.” Their faces swarm around her, see-through, ghostly. _

* * *

She shoots up in bed, her breathing rapid, her ears ringing. Her eyes wander around the room in panic and finally fixate on Fitz, who is asleep in the armchair, his tablet resting on his lap. Slowly, she pulls back her covers and gets up, never taking her eyes off him. She walks over to him and carefully grabs the tablet, putting it down on the coffee table. She looks down on him, the peacefulness of his chest rising and falling. She hesitates for a moment, and then climbs into his lap like a frightened animal seeking rescue. He grunts briefly as her movements wake him. He looks at her with sleepy eyes. A smile flashes across his face, and he wraps his arms around her, allowing her to snuggle closer against him. Her arms reach around his neck, and she pulls her knees closer. Her head rests on his shoulder and with every breath she takes she inhales his scent, as if she is trying to inhale part of him. She feels him gently stroking her arm and the monotone movement allows her to finally fall back asleep.


	6. The ghosts that we knew made us black and/or blue

Jemma watches Dr. Garner nervously as he sits down in the armchair in the isolation room. He crosses his legs, resting a clipboard on his lap, his right hand holding a pen. Slowly, Jemma sits down on the far end of the couch next to his seat.

“So, is there something specific you want to talk about, Jemma?” he asks her directly.

She wrinkles her forehead. “Really? That’s how you start?”

He chuckles briefly. “Well, believe it or not, that question is usually a pretty solid start to a therapy session.”

Jemma forces a smile. “I’m sorry. That was a bit rude, wasn’t it?”

“No worries,” he replies. “But, nonetheless,  _ is _ there something specific you want to talk about?”

“Not really,” she admits, her hands nervously playing with each other. “I really just want to put everything behind me. Forget about it.”

“Well, Jemma,” Dr. Garner says, “You know how the brain works—possibly better than I do. You know what mental processes a person goes through after a trauma. You know you won’t forget about it. You know it doesn’t work that way. It will take time.”

She looks away, avoiding his eyes, and exhales sharply. Quietly, she mumbles, “I don’t want to talk about what happened on the planet.”

“Okay, we don't have to talk about  _ that _ ,” Dr. Garner replies. “How about we start with what’s happening  _ now _ instead? You feel any different since you've been back? Any trouble sleeping… or anxiety? Shock, rage... depression?”

She looks back at him. “I know you're looking for signs of PTSD. But I  _ assure _ you, Dr. Garner, I'm fine.” She shrugs her shoulders.

He sighs audibly. “You've been through something pretty extreme, Jemma. There  _ will be _ after-effects… and that's okay. It's okay to struggle, to feel uncomfortable in your own skin. You’re dealing with a lot of emotions and it helps to open up about them.”

She clenches her jaw and stares at the coffee table, feeling her heart beating rapidly in her chest. Anger rises inside of her; she feels trapped, forced to think about what she’s trying to forget. Her hands form fists.

“How  _ are _ you feeling, Jemma?” His voice is calm, quiet, as he rephrases his previous question. She knows he is trying to help her, but somehow his question feels like an attack, a threat, an insult.

Her head spins to where he sits, and she glares at him in rage, “ _ How am I feeling _ ?” she yells, leaning forward in her seat. “ **_How am I feeling?_ ** ”

“I feel like I’ve lost  _ six months _ of my life; six months of my life that are  _ gone _ , that never even happened; six months of things that I  _ should have _ experienced; of things that I  _ should have _ witnessed, things I should have  _ helped _ with,  _ worked on. _ ”

“Skye changed her name, Bobbi went through rehab, Hunter is on a revenge trip against Ward, May left, Coulson is on his third arm, Fitz spent  _ months _ trying to figure out the monolith  **_and_ ** developed an incredibly versatile material to help with the Inhuman outbreak.”

She pauses, gesturing to the door. “There’s an  _ Inhuman outbreak _ …  _ I should have been a part of all that _ . I should have been  _ here _ . I should have  _ helped _ . I’ve lost six months of my life.  **_You want to know how I feel?_ ** ”

With a shaking left hand, she points at her ear. “I want to ram something sharp through my eardrum to make the noise stop.”

Her hands continue to gesture wildly, forming angry claws that want to scratch her memories and feelings away.

“But at the same time I want to  _ beg _ people to keep talking, because my heart wants to explode  _ the second _ it gets quiet, because I’m scared that all I’ll hear again are  _ their _ whispers, those  _ ghosts _ that are  _ haunting _ me.”

She glares back at Dr. Garner. “ **_You want to know how I feel?_ ** I want to turn off all the lights, because they hurt my eyes, and yet I want to stand outside and stare into the sun. Because there was  _ never _ any sun.”

“ ** _You want to know what it was like?_** What **_hell_** was like? There was _never_. _any._ _sun_. And I didn’t know if it would _ever_ return. Because none of the reports mentioned it. _None_ of them. They had never seen it. In _all those years_ , they had _never_ seen the sun. And I think that’s what drove them mad! It _killed_ them!”

Her lungs force her to take a break. She’s breathing heavily, trying to find her composure. Her eyes have filled with tears. She looks away, unwilling to break down further, unwilling to let her feelings win.

“Who are  _ they _ , Jemma? What reports?” Dr. Garner asks carefully.

She looks at him, befuddled. “The astronauts,” she mumbles quietly.

Dr. Garner shifts in his seat, leaning slightly forward. “There were others?”

She wrinkles her forehead. “Not anymore… But you knew that… Surely they told you.” She pauses as her anger resurfaces, as she feels like he is somehow toying with her. “Why do you pretend that you don’t already know these things?”

He puts down his clipboard on the coffee table and rests his arms on his lap, interlacing his fingers. “Jemma, I didn’t know these things,” he replies softly. “ _ Yes _ , I’ve asked the others to tell me anything you may have said… bring me up to speed… but  _ no one _ mentioned any of this. No astronauts. No reports.”

“But Fitz knows,” she replies, confused. “He’s seen the…” She pauses as it dawns on her. “No, he hasn’t,” she whispers. “He hasn’t seen anything. … Hasn’t heard anything. I … He wasn’t there.”

The flood of tears that she had tried to hold in check break her dam and stream down her cheeks.

“I recorded videos for him,” she recalls. “And I talked to him, and … and now my mind thinks he was actually there.” She sobs. “I can’t even tell anymore what was real and what wasn’t. … He wasn’t. He wasn’t there.”

She covers her eyes with both hands, trying to push the tears back, the emotions that overwhelm every fiber of her being. “There was  _ no one _ there. I was alone. Only their whispers. … Their ghosts. Figments of my imagination.”

She jumps up from her seat; her body and mind torn between fight or flight. Her eyes search the room for an exit. Every muscle in her body is tense, her heart is racing, her breathing fast and forced.

“Jemma,” Dr. Garner calls for her. Intuitively, she turns to look at him, panic in her eyes.

He has gotten up from his seat. Slowly, he walks towards her, his hands raised in a soothing gesture. “You’re not alone anymore,” he says calmly. “And it may not seem like it to you  _ now _ , but  _ this _ was a good start.”

Her exhausted body falls back onto the couch. She stares at a single undefined, blurry spot in front of her, trying to steady her breathing. Her eyes are blinking rapidly, as tears cloud her vision.

“I don’t want to hear them anymore,” she mutters quietly. “Those voices, those whispers, those demons.”

Dr. Garner sits down next to her on the couch, turning his body slightly to face her. “Then we’ll make them stop, Jemma…. But it will take time…  _ and _ patience. Just know you got a lot of friends here who care a lot about you. You’re safe now.”

She closes her eyes and nods weakly, wishing she could believe him.


	7. Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins

Jemma is standing in the kitchen of the Playground, absentmindedly slicing a ripe tomato on a small cutting board, a plate with her half-prepared sandwich and a glass of water next to it on the counter. Her mind is elsewhere, roaming in space and time.

Four and a half weeks have passed since she jumped through a portal at the other end of the galaxy; since her broken mind and body tumbled to the floor in the now sealed-off monolith room at the Playground.

Four weeks have passed since she screamed at Dr. Garner and he called it a good start. 

Jemma had slowly established more of a routine. She had left the isolation room and had moved back to her own quarters. She was trying to be patient, wanted to be patient, but at the same time frustration and anger raged inside her, the wish to be stronger, to move past it all, the desire to prove that she could do it.

It didn’t feel like a  _ good start _ .

She still woke up with nightmares almost every night and yet was too afraid to ask Fitz or Daisy to stay with her, even though they had offered, even though she knows their offers were genuine.

She was trying to open up to Dr. Garner, to Fitz, to Daisy; tried to tell them more about her experience. But often she hid the details. And when they asked her about her return, she said the portal opened. That it was luck. Nothing more. She doesn’t say where she was when it happened; doesn’t talk about how it had almost been too late; doesn’t talk about losing all hope; doesn’t mention that she had reached that point, that she had lost all fear of death, just like the others, whose whispers and taunts haunt her at night.

_ You became like us. Just like us. _

Suddenly, she hears their whispers getting louder, approaching her. She swirls around, her hand brushing against a cold, smooth object, tightening the grip on the vegetable knife until her knuckles turn white. Her eyes are wide-open, panic-stricken, her breathing rapid. Her heart beats painfully against her chest.

The sound of her water glass smashing into a thousand pieces on the cold stone floor snaps her out of her ghostly vision.

Slowly, her eyes focus on her surroundings and she sees Daisy and Fitz standing only a few feet away from her with shocked expressions. Both have raised their hands in defense.

“Jemma,” Fitz says softly.

She stares at her hand, still gripping the knife like a weapon. She begins to hyperventilate as realization hits her. Her hand begins to tremble and with a small scream she lets the knife drop as if it had burnt her.

Her eyes wander to the floor, littered with pieces of broken glass. Intuitively, unable to think about her actions, she falls to her knees and frantically begins to gather up the shards with her hands. Tears stream down her face as she tries to undo what just happened, as she tries to wipe away the memory of her threatening two people she loved, two people who had done everything in their power to help her recover. She feels the pain as the sharp edges cut through her skin, and yet her mind doesn’t allow her to stop what she’s doing.

She barely notices Fitz and Daisy, who have rushed to her side, kneeling down beside her.

“Jemma, stop,” Daisy pleads quietly, placing her hand on Jemma’s shoulder. But somehow the gentle gesture startles her and in panic she shakes off Daisy’s hand, continuing to grab for the shattered pieces of glass.

The puddle of water on the floor slowly turns pink from her blood, and Jemma feels like the broken pieces are fragments of her broken soul, pieces that cannot be put together.

“Jemma, listen.” Something in his voice makes her stop and look up. Fitz’s concerned blue eyes are strangely hypnotizing. She tries to listen, tries to focus.

“Let me look at your hands, please,” he says calmly.

Unable to respond, unable to move or talk, she hopes that her eyes will tell him that she allows it.

Slowly, his hands reach for her wrists, turning her lower arms around to reveal her bleeding hands. Pieces of glass—some larger, others barely visible—stick in her palms, glittering as the kitchen lights hit their broken edges.

Fitz grimaces as he raises her hands closer to his face to inspect her injuries.

Daisy scrambles to get up. “I’ll get a medical kit!”

“No,” Fitz calls her back, and she immediately kneels back down next to Jemma. “We’ll have to do this in the medical bay. We need a magnifying glass, and medical tweezers, better lighting. If we try cleaning it here, we’ll only make it worse.”

Jemma sees the fear on their faces, but she can’t tell if it is fear  _ for _ her or fear  _ of _ her.

“I thought it was them,” she mumbles quietly, staring at her hands. “I thought it was them. That they had come to get me, to take me back.”

“Why won’t they leave?” she whispers and lifts her tired head, searching Fitz’s and Daisy’s eyes for an answer. “Why won’t they leave me alone? I want them to leave.”

Her sadness and fear suddenly turn to anger. Her eyes wander from her two friends to the empty kitchen, as if her demons were hiding in one of its corners.

“ **_Leave me alone!_ ** ” she screams into the air.

“Jemma, look at me.” His voice barely catches her attention, until he carefully takes her face into his hands and stares into her eyes.

“Look at me,” he repeats quietly and she abides. “I’m here. Daisy’s here. We’re here. …  _ You’re _ here.”

He pauses, allowing his words to sink in.

“They  _ will _ leave,” he tells her, still cupping her face. “They will leave, Jemma. And until they do, we’re here.”

Jemma’s eyes flutter, filling with tears.

“Say it, Jemma, please,” he whispers. “They will leave.”

Her lips tremble, trying to hold back tears. Her mouth twitches, wanting to comply.

Once again, she feels Daisy’s hand on her shoulder. This time, she doesn’t push her away, and instead looks at Daisy’s brown, watery eyes.

“Together!” Daisy suggests. “Let’s say it together.”

Jemma nods weakly and takes a deep breath.

“They will leave.” Her own trembling voice is drowned out by Fitz’s and Daisy’s, but the statement nonetheless slowly sinks into her brain and takes root.

“They will leave,” she repeats more confidently.

Daisy nods at her, smiling encouragingly, while Fitz’s thumb gently strikes her cheek.

Tears stream down Jemma’s face, but for the first time in a long time, they aren’t tears of sadness, or anger, or fear. They’re hopeful tears.

She smiles.

“Now,” Fitz says quietly, “let’s get you to the medical bay.”


	8. I will see the light

She pushes herself away from the workbench with both hands, and pain shoots up her left arm as her chair rolls back. She gets up, grimacing at her hand.

It had been three weeks since she had threatened her two best friends with a knife, since she had stared down at her bleeding hands, since Fitz had refused to let anyone but himself clean her wounds.

Most of the cuts had healed. But the deepest one right in the center of her left palm still hurt sometimes if she pushed on it at the right… or rather the  _ wrong _ angle.

Her hands almost seemed like a mirror of her soul. The incident in the kitchen had been a turning point, a wakeup call, and just like the cuts on her hands had slowly healed over the past three weeks, so had her soul. Not completely. Some of the pain remained. But it was bearable. The pain, the fear, the nightmares, and the anger weren’t constant anymore. They only surfaced occasionally—like the pain in her hand—if she pushed too much.

She had made tremendous progress; had completely opened up to the idea of therapy. She had told Dr. Garner about the hatch, the astronauts, the graves, even about the canyon. How it had called to her more and more urgently. How she had fought it at first, until her phone died. She told him about her final moments on Maveth; how she had been only one step away. She begged him not to tell anyone else; she wanted to tell them herself when she’s ready. Dr. Garner had smiled at her. “Jemma, I’m bound by patient-therapist confidentiality… but even if I wasn’t, believe me, I would respect your wishes.”

With every hour, every day of opening up to her therapist and to her friends, she had felt stronger; the demons that haunted her had become more quiet.

Eventually, she decided to return to the lab. She smiled when she first visited her workstation. It was exactly as she had left it—Fitz had made sure of it. Not even a post-it note had been moved.

At first, she only spent a couple of hours there, catching up on reading and reports. The noises in the lab, the co-workers, and machines often still startled her, but slowly she was back in her old routine, back to being a scientist.

She pulls her mind back to reality and lowers the hand she had been staring at. She steps in front of the microscope to re-inspect the Inhuman blood sample she is testing when a shadow appears behind her.

Calmly, she raises her head and turns to face her visitor.

“Hey,” he says, a smile lingering on his lips. “Am I interrupting you?”

“Not at all,” she replies, returning his smile.

He seems nervous when he speaks up again. “I was just… well…” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “It’s your birthday.”

She smiles shyly. “Yes. I’m aware of that.”

He chuckles nervously. “Right. And… well… I thought… I mean…” He bites his lower lip. “Umm… I would like to take you out for dinner.”

“Oh,” she replies, noticing her heart rate increasing. “Just you and me?”

He nods. “Yeah. Somewhere nice. …. If … if you want.”

She inhales deeply, hesitating for a moment, remembering the last time he asked her out, remembering what happened next.

“That would be lovely,” she finally replies quietly.

He sighs in relief. “Oh-kay… I… I thought we could leave here around seven?”

She only nods, thinking that her thumping heart is loud enough to drown out any words.

“Okay then,” he says. “Seven… I’ll pick you up at your room at seven.”

He turns around to leave, grinning sheepishly.

She watches him, smiling from ear to ear, when a sudden panic overcomes her.

“Fitz! Wait!” she calls after him.

He turns around. “Yes?”

“Umm,” is all she can mumble.

“Look, Jemma,” he says, taking a step closer, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “We don’t have to… I mean… If you don’t want to or if you don’t feel ready or…”

“No,” she interrupts him. “That’s not it. Not at all. It’s…” She pulls her hair back in frustration. “Ugh, this is ridiculous.”

He looks at her, confused. “Jemma?”

She pauses, exhales sharply, then takes a few quick steps towards him.

He looks down at her with pleading eyes. “Please, Jemma, whatever it is, just tell m…”

But she won’t let him finish his sentence as her courage finally wins over her fear. She cups his face and kisses him, his lips feeling firm and tense against hers. When she breaks the brief kiss, he is staring down at her, wide-eyed.

“There,” she mutters, both hands in front of her. “That’s done.”

“That’s… done,” he mumbles, bewildered, his mouth slightly open.

“Well,” she tries to explain, her fingers nervously playing with each other. “I kept thinking about what happened last time… and… I … I was afraid that something could happen again… and… I … didn’t want to let this opportunity pass… just in case.”

His lips aren’t moving when his half-open mouth mutters an almost inaudible “Uh-huh.”

“Oh gosh,” she exclaims suddenly, pressing her fingers against her temples briefly before releasing them into the air. “That was terribly unromantic.”

She presses her hands against her chest. “I’m so sorry, Fitz.” She removes her hands, gesturing towards him. “Maybe we should just forget this happened. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he interjects, pointing at her, “no… nonononono, … no, umm, no.”

“No?” she asks, a hint of a smile lingering on her face.

“No,” he repeats, breathing nervously. “In fact… Umm… Would you…” He points at her, then back at himself. “Could I…” His fingers move back and forth between them. “Do you… Would you mind if we did that again… like  _ now _ ?”

She smiles. “Well…maybe just for good measure?”

He looks at her and she sees a longing and passion in his eyes she had never noticed before. Her heart begins to beat faster as he takes a step closer, putting his hands on her hips. Slowly, she places her hands on his chest, allowing them to glide up and around his neck, playing with the soft curls at the back of his neck. His eyes wander from her eyes to her lips as he slowly leans in. When her lips meet his again, they are soft, gentle, careful. His arms slide to the small of her back, pulling her closer, as their kiss deepens. When their tongues meet for the first time, it sends tingles through her entire body. And when their tongues start gently dancing with each other, she can’t help but moan into his mouth, before having to break the kiss so as not to be overwhelmed by the experience. Their foreheads are touching, both breathing heavily.

“I’m dizzy,” he whispers, out of breath against her lips.

She chuckles happily, her hands cupping his cheeks, his stubble rough against her palms. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it?” she says quietly.

He lifts his head and looks at her. “That I’m dizzy?” he asks, a bit confused.

She laughs. “That our first kiss happened in the lab.”

He smiles at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And the second one.”

“Uh-huh,” she grins, letting her thumb glide over his lower lip. “And the second one.”  _ The one that made her shiver, made her tingle, the one that made her long for a third, and a fourth, and the infinite _ .

For a moment they stare at each other, as the world around them disappears.

“Umm,” Fitz finally mutters. “I … I have to meet Mack… I’m… probably already late.”

She nods, unable to stop smiling.

His eyes wander back to her lips. “I’ll… umm… I…” Slowly, he leans down and kisses her again, softly, just for a moment, yet long enough to make her stomach flutter.

He pulls away begrudgingly. “Alright,” he mumbles, exhaling slowly. “So… ummm… Seven. I’ll see you…”

“At seven…” she completes his sentence.

She watches him walk backwards towards the door, smiling at the thought that he seems unable to look away from her.

Suddenly her eyes widen.

“Fitz…” she blurts out, but it’s too late.

He runs straight into one of the workbenches.

“Oh,” he exclaims, surprised, touching the metal surface behind him and looking back and forth between Jemma and the obstacle in his way.

“Umm … seven” is the last thing he mumbles before finally breaking eye contact and exiting the lab.

Grinning from ear to ear, biting her lower lip to remind herself of the sensation of his lips on hers, sighing happily, Jemma turns around to return to her own work station, when it dawns on her.

“Oh dear,” she exclaims, and heads straight for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: a bit of friendship, a bit of comic relief.


	9. You know my core

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: In my fanfic world, Daisy is a potty mouth. Be prepared.

As she gets closer to the gym, the grunting sounds of two sparring women tell her that she has come to the right place. She enters the room. Bobbi is with her back to the door, but Daisy immediately notices her.

“Oh hey,” Daisy says, lowering her fists.

Jemma smiles at the warm welcome, but her eyes widen in shock and she quickly covers her mouth with one hand when Bobbi’s fist hits Daisy’s face a split second later.

“Ugh,” Daisy exclaims, wiping blood from her nose. “Rehab my ass.”

“My knee is the problem,” Bobbi replies dryly, unwrapping her boxing gloves. “My hands and shoulder have healed quite nicely.”

“I’ll say,” Daisy mumbles.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” Jemma takes a few steps closer. “I broke your concentration.”

“No worries. Bobbi’s harmless. May’s put me through worse,” Daisy jokes.

“Careful, young lady,” Bobbi teases in return before turning to Jemma. “So… what brings you here?”

“Well,” Jemma replies. “I could use some help.”

“Everything okay?” Daisy asks, concerned.

“Yes,” Jemma replies quickly, “it’s certainly no emergency or anything…. Well… at least not the ‘save the world’-‘life or death’ kind of emergency… I just… need a second opinion…”

“Sure, on what?” Bobbi inquires.

“Umm, could you come to my quarters? I mean… when you’re all done here? Maybe around 5:30 or so? It’ll be easier to explain.”

* * *

Bobbi and Daisy arrive at 5:30 on the dot. Jemma rushes to the door the second they knock and swings it open.

“Thank you so much for coming!” she exclaims, nervously pulling Daisy into the room. Bobbi follows cautiously.

“Alright,” Jemma says, gesturing at her bed, “here we are.”

Her two friends take a look at Jemma’s bed, covered with every piece of clothing she owns. Then they stare at her in unison; their expressions utterly confused.

“Ohhh-kay?” Daisy mutters at the same time Bobbi mumbles, “Here we are.”

Jemma takes a deep breath, realizing that she owes her friends an explanation. “Fitz invited me to dinner … for tonight.”

“Shit, really?” Daisy’s eyes open wide and she grins widely.

“Yes, well,” Jemma tries to explain shyly, “I don’t know if he mentioned it, but he asked me prior… I mean… before the monolith took me.  _ Right _ before.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” Bobbi says quietly. “Eventually.”

“So, it’s not a  _ complete _ surprise,” Jemma continues. “And… well… I can’t imagine a better way to celebrate my birthday than to have dinner with the man I…” She stops herself, trying not to blurt out a love confession she has not shared with him yet.

“…with Fitz,” she simply concludes, but Daisy’s and Bobbi’s smirking faces staring back at her make her realize she has not fooled anyone.

“Wait,” Daisy’s expression changes back to confused. “ Your birthday isn’t until tomorrow!”

“No, it’s today,” Jemma replies.

“No, it’s September 11.”

“Which is today,” Jemma counters.

“No it’s… wait… what the fuck, how did I lose an entire day?” Daisy drops her shoulders in disappointment.

“Well, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” Jemma tries to comfort her friend. “Dealing with the influx of new Inhuman, the ATCU…”

“Uh, yeah,” Daisy interrupts her, “I don’t think what I’m dealing with really compares to what  _ you _ went through, so, let’s just say that I’m an idiot, and I owe you one hell of a birthday present, ‘cause what I got you for tomorrow doesn’t cut it anymore.”

Jemma smiles at Daisy, feeling like they’ve had far too few friendship moments like this lately. “You don't have to get me anything.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t get to decide that,” Daisy interjects.

“Soooo,” Bobbi chimes in, trying to become part of the conversation again and steering them back to their original task. “A date with Fitz.”

“Well, a birthday dinner,” Jemma attempts to correct her.

“A date. With Fitz,” Bobbi repeats, smirking knowingly.

“Yes, a date. With Fitz,” Jemma admits, smiling shyly, still barely believing that it is actually happening.

“Do you feel ready for this?” Bobbi asks in a more serious tone. “I mean, you haven’t been off base since you came back. Going to a restaurant… there’s a lot of stimuli.”

“I realize that,” Jemma replies. “And, well… I’m a bit nervous maybe… but at the same time…” She takes a deep breath. “When I was on Maveth… I kept thinking about our dinner. Where we’d go. What we’d eat. What we’d talk about. It was … something that kept me going. And now, I don’t want my PTSD to take that away from me… from both of us, really. My excitement about going out with Fitz far outweighs my anxiety about leaving this base. Plus, he’ll be with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, in that case,” Bobbi says, “these are all great outfits. Is it just a matter of picking one of them?”

Jemma sighs in frustration. “Ugh. I don’t know. I laid everything out and somehow nothing seems quite right. I mean…it’s a date. Shouldn't I be wearing something fancier? A dress maybe?”

“Umm,” Daisy chimes in. “You should wear something you’re  _ comfortable _ in…I don’t think I’ve  _ ever _ seen you wear a dress.”

“I’ve worn dresses,” Jemma protests. “Occasionally.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows. “But do you feel  _ comfortable _ in them?”

“Well… umm,” Jemma mutters quietly.

“Exactly,” Daisy concludes.

“Daisy is right,” Bobbi chimes in. “You’re going on a date with a guy you’ve been best friends with for ten years. That’s a big deal. And while you’ve certainly improved your ability to lie since I first met you, right now you’re definitely wearing your emotions on your sleeve. You’re nervous, Jemma... understandably so… I don’t think you have to add to that nervousness by wearing something you’re not comfortable in because of some kind of cliché idea of what a date should look like. Be comfortable. Be yourself!”

“Yeah,” Daisy adds. “Not that I have experience with this, but I’m fairly certain that an advantage of going on a date with your best friend is that he already knows you inside and out… and he doesn’t expect you to be anyone but yourself. I’m willing to bet good money that Fitz doesn’t care what you wear tonight.”

Jemma smiles gratefully at her two friends. “You have some convincing arguments.”

“Alright,” Bobbi says and steps closer to Jemma’s bed. “Don’t even think about it. Which of these are you going to wear?”

Jemma looks from Bobbi to the clothes on her bed. A smile flashes across her face. “This one,” she says and picks up one of the outfits.

* * *

Jemma returns from the bathroom 45 minutes later wearing her chosen clothes: black pants, a simple white, slightly sheer blouse over a basic spaghetti strap top, and comfortable black flats. She has kept her make-up subtle and natural. Her wavy hair falls loosely down to her shoulders.

“Nuh-hice!” Daisy exclaims enthusiastically, sitting cross-legged on Jemma’s bed.

Jemma rolls her eyes at her friend and turns to Bobbi, who is leaning against the wall. “What do  _ you _ think?”

“It’s perfect,” Bobbi replies. “And looks very comfortable.”

Jemma smiles shyly and nervously looks at her watch. She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales through her mouth, trying to calm her heart, which is beating rapidly in excited anticipation.

“Alright,” Daisy says, stopping Jemma’s mind from drifting off. 

She scooches closer to the edge of the bed, putting on an overly dramatic serious expression. “Dating rules! First date… first base only.”

“ _ Really _ ?” Bobbi interrupts, wrinkling her forehead, “ _ You’re _ a first date, first base only girl?”

“First of all,” Daisy counters. “I didn’t say  _ I _ was…, and  _ second _ of all, that was obviously a joke. I mean…” She points at Jemma. “She should do whatever the fuck she wants to do on her first date with Fitz… including, well… fucking Fitz.”

Jemma feels her cheeks turning bright red. She stares at Daisy, unable to stop her friend from talking.

“Wow, hey,  _ Fucking Fitz _ ,” Daisy continues. “Try saying that ten times fast. There’s a tongue twister for you.”

“ _ Daisy! _ ” Jemma finally finds her voice again.

Bobbi is still leaning against the wall, slightly bent over, laughing uncontrollably. “Alright, … so… while I think Agent Johnson here…” She points at Daisy. “…could work on her potty mouth…”

“Hey, I say it like I see it,” Daisy interrupts.

“…I must agree with her,” Bobbi continues, having stopped laughing and looking at Jemma with warm and friendly eyes.

“Follow your heart on this one, and your gut. Follow your instincts. No base, first base, second, third, or homerun all the way… you’ll know what’s right. Trust yourself. You know Fitz will follow your lead.”

Jemma smiles gratefully at her two friends, who are so different and yet so similar.

“Well,” she says eventually, grinning sheepishly. “We sort of already crossed first base off our list earlier today.”

Daisy’s eyes widen. “Shut the fuck up and tell me more!” she exclaims.

Jemma looks at her, wrinkling her forehead. “You  _ do _ realize that that’s an oxymoron.”

“Umm, nah,” Daisy protests, “It’s an expression … that  _ I _ use.”

Jemma chuckles briefly.

“Come on, Morse,” Daisy pleads. “Back me up on this one.”

“Well,” Bobbi replies, looking from Daisy to Jemma, and checking her clock. “You said he’ll pick you up at seven? That means we have half an hour to kill.”

Bobbi walks over to the bed and sits down as well. “So, I’m with Daisy. Shut the fuck up and tell us more … I’ve heard that’s an expression.”

Jemma laughs out loud. She takes a deep breath and sighs, “Well… alright…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The dinner.


	10. Share my all

He opens the door for her, and shyly she steps inside. The moment the door closes behind her, her feet seem to be rooted to the spot as the sounds, colors, and fast movements of the busy restaurant flood her senses. The sensation of Fitz carefully grabbing her hand lets her muscles relax. She looks at him and a smile flashes across her face. She tries to steady her breathing and calm her racing heart, while Fitz gives his name to the hostess.

“It’ll be just a moment,” the hostess tells them, and Fitz steps aside, pulling Jemma along to make room for another couple entering the establishment.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing at her.

She takes a deep breath. “It  _ is _ a lot of stimuli,” she admits. “A bit overwhelming.”

He gives her hand a little squeeze. “It’ll be okay. I promise. It’ll get quieter.”

She wrinkles her forehead skeptically at his answer as her panicked eyes wander across the noisy and hectic room.

“Unless you want to leave, Jemma,” Fitz adds. “Your call. Whatever you need.”

She smiles at him. “I don’t want to leave. Of that I’m sure.”

He sighs in relief and looks into the restaurant.

Jemma watches him while they continue to wait. He looks handsome in his dark slacks and jacket with a grey heather button-up shirt. The palm of his hand is a bit sweaty, his breathing slightly shallow; his eyes are wandering across the room while his fingers nervously tug on his lower lip.

Somehow it calms her, knowing that he is just as excited and nervous about this evening.

A middle-aged man in a suit and tie walks up to them, enthusiastically extending his hand to greet them.

“Mister Fitz,” he says, shaking Fitz’s hand. “We’re  _ delighted _ to see you.”

He gestures into the dining area. “Your table is this way. Please, follow me.”

Fitz pulls Jemma along and they meander between the tables. Jemma scans the room but cannot see any empty spots. Nervous and confused, she follows Fitz and the restaurant manager to the end of the hall.

The gentleman stops in front of a milk glass sliding door with a floral pattern decoration.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door and revealing a small, beautifully decorated room with a single table and two chairs. Everything is bathed in a gentle warm light. A single candle burns in the middle of the table. Two wine glasses and a bottle of wine stand next to a vase with red roses.

“A very persistent young man here,” the manager says to Jemma, while patting Fitz on his shoulder.

He steps inside and Fitz follows suit, still holding on to Jemma, who barely believes her eyes.

“Our private dining rooms are usually booked months in advance,” the manager continues. “But it was impossible to refuse Mister Fitz’s request. He certainly knows how to put forth a convincing argument. We pride ourselves in accommodating any special needs our customers may have. How could we refuse a story such as yours? I sincerely hope you will find everything the way you need. Please, do not hesitate to let us know if you require any changes to the set-up.”

He gestures at the bottle on the table. “The wine is a gift from us. I will give you some time to settle in and study the menu.”

He leaves the room, closing the sliding door behind him.

Slowly, Jemma walks around the table, taking in the entire room. Fitz pulls out one of the chairs and smiles at her. She can’t help but grin at his old-fashioned gesture, but decides to allow him to show off his best gentlemanly behavior.

“This is incredible,” she tells him as she sits down. “I can’t believe you went through all this trouble to…”

He walks over to his side of the table and sits down.

“It’s not a big deal,” he replies.

“Fitz,” she says, shaking her head.

“No really,” he counters, “I picked this place for the private dining rooms, ‘cause  _ I _ don’t like the ruckus of a busy restaurant.”

She smiles at him, not truly believing him but accepting his lie nonetheless.

“So, what special needs did you tell him I had?” she asks curiously.

“Umm,” he says, inhaling nervously through his teeth, “I made up a medical condition.”

“ _ Really? _ ” She wrinkles her forehead.

“Yep,” Fitz nods, “Zhores Alferov Disease, a genetic disorder. Extreme sensitivity to light and sounds which worsens over time.”

“You made up a medical condition and named it after one of my favorite physicists to get a private table here?” Jemma grins.

“I may have done that,” he replies, smirking back at her.

“Is it deadly?” she jokes.

“I didn’t go so far,” he admits, “but there may have been mention of you not having left your apartment for eight months because your symptoms worsened.”

She chuckles, “I’m not sure if I should be flattered, appalled or impressed.”

“How ‘bout a bit of everything?” he says, smiling at her with warm eyes.

When the sliding door opens again and the manager returns, Jemma has to force herself to break their eye contact.

“Have you decided what you'll be having?”

“Oh, gosh,” Jemma exclaims, realizing they hadn’t even so much as glanced at the menu. She picks up the large laminated card in front of her, but her eyes won’t focus as the noise from the main room floods their little private sanctuary. The manager hovering next to their table increases her stress level. 

“So much to choose from,” she mumbles nervously.

“Maybe this will help,” the manager suggests and pours some of the wine into each of their glasses.

The dark red liquid swooshes against the thin bowl of the wine glass. Jemma’s eyes glaze over as almost forgotten memories surface without warning. Her heart is racing, and her hands begin to tremble. She blinks rapidly, fighting back tears.

“Jemma?” Fitz’s voice rings in her ears like an echo. 

“Can you give us two minutes?” he asks the manager, and through a fog of tears, Jemma sees the manager leave the room, muttering a quiet “Of course.”

Jemma closes her eyes, trying to find an anchor in the room, something to focus on that is real, that is there. The distracting noises from the main restaurant area quiet down as soon as the sliding door shuts, and her ears instead pick up the soft piano music playing over the speakers. She feels Fitz’s hand on hers and smiles. She has found her anchor.

She opens her eyes and sees his, blue, shimmering, and full of concern.

“What happened?” he asks quietly, gently drawing small circles on the back of her hand.

Jemma bites her lower lip, inhaling slowly. “It’s the wine,” she whispers, glancing at the half-full glasses.

“My pond,” she recalls, “my water source… I never knew what color it really was. It was dark… like everything else on that planet. No sun.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Everything bathed in darkness.” She swallows. “It tasted so strange… the water… Sometimes… sometimes I thought it looked like blood… that I was drinking blood.” Nausea creeps up her throat, leaving an acidy taste in her mouth. “But I  _ had to _ drink it. It was all there was. … But sometimes.” She shakes her head, trying to shake off her memories. She looks up at him, sighing deeply. “The wine… it reminded me of the water.”

His hand is still resting on hers. She can tell that he’s holding back tears.

“I’m sorry, Jemma. Maybe this was too soon.” He tilts his head slightly to one side. “Do you want to leave? …Because we can.”

His thoughtfulness makes her smile.

“No,” she replies. “All I want is to have dinner with you tonight.”

A smile flashes across his face.

She glances back at the wine bottle and sighs. “But maybe we can leave the wine off.”

He nods, a smile still lingering on his lips.

The sliding door opens again, and the manager returns. 

“How are we doing?”

“We may need  _ one _ more minute to pick our food,” Fitz replies. “But… umm… if you don’t mind. … We greatly appreciate your generosity, but… would you mind taking the wine and… just bringing us some water?”

“Absolutely,” the manager says. He bows politely and steps to the table to pick up the wine glasses and bottle.

“I’m terribly sorry, Sir,” Jemma apologizes shyly. “It’s…”

“No need to apologize, Miss,” the manager interjects. “Our only goal is to make your evening as pleasant as possible. Believe me, this wine will not go to waste. Our staff will happily take care of it after we close.” He winks at her jokingly. “I will be back in a moment to take your order.”

When he leaves, Jemma smiles gratefully at Fitz, before finally picking up her menu to choose an entree.

* * *

They don’t talk much while they eat. Jemma can tell that he’s trying to keep the conversation light.

“Hey,” he says at one point, lifting up his glass of water, “I completely forgot to give you your official birthday toast!”

She chuckles and raises her own glass, allowing him to clink his against hers.

“Happy birthday, Jemma Simmons,” is all he says, and yet his eyes are telling her so much more than that.

“Thank you,” she replies quietly, hoping that he’ll know she’s not just talking about his toast.

“Remember when we wanted to celebrate our birthdays together at the Academy,” Fitz breaks the silence, “and you baked this insanely complicated cake.”

“Ugh,” Jemma recalls, closing her eyes and dreaming of the beauty of a cake she baked almost exactly ten years ago. “A dark-chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream icing as the filling and chocolate buttercream frosting on the outside. Two tiers. Decorated with chocolate shavings and little white sugary pearls.”

She opens her eyes again. “… And then  _ you _ managed to set it on fire because you  _ insisted _ on using the blowtorch in the lab to light the 19 birthday candles we had somehow managed to cram on top of it.”

“ _ And _ I almost burnt down the entire  _ lab _ ,” Fitz adds, “and you didn’t speak to me for three whole days.”

Jemma chuckles, “And then you bought me the most  _ disgusting _ cake I have ever tasted as an apology.”

“It was disgusting?” Fitz asks, surprised.

“Oh please, Fitz,” Jemma responds. “It was completely overcooked and dry, and the frosting was far too sugary.”

That’s when she notices a hint of sadness on his face.

“Oh my gosh,” she exclaims, “you didn’t  _ buy _ it. You  _ made _ it, didn’t you?”

He presses his lips together and shrugs his shoulders, making Jemma want to hide in a corner.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Fitz,” she apologizes. “It  _ was _ a sweet gesture. That’s why I stopped being mad at you for ruining my perfect birthday cake.”

He chuckles. “You know, it probably  _ was _ disgusting. Let’s face it. I’ll eat just about anything. I probably didn’t even notice it was bad. I’m no cook… certainly not a baker.”

Jemma laughs, relieved that he doesn’t seem to be mad that she insulted his non-existent baking talents.

“Do you remember last year?” she asks, her expression switching from joyful to serious. “I was visiting my parents and you all got me this wonderful Doctor Who cake? And you sent me a video and told me that you’d save me a piece.”

“Which I did!” Fitz exclaims, pointing his index finger at her. “Almost cost me a hand, trying to pry that last piece away from Daisy.”

She laughs for a moment, then inhales deeply, pausing before continuing to speak.

“I must have watched that video 100 times on Maveth… It was one of those things that kept me going. Reminded me of home.” She looks at him. “Of you.”

He is quiet for a moment, staring at her with watery eyes.

“I finally managed to retrieve the data from your phone,” he eventually admits quietly.

His remark surprises her. She had almost forgotten that he still had her phone.

“Did you look at it?” she asks nervously.

He nods. “I wanted to make sure the files weren’t corrupted… I hope that was okay.”

She smiles at him. “Yes. That was okay.” Quietly she adds, “Most of it was for you anyway.”

He doesn’t reply. Just the corner of his mouth is twitching ever so slightly.

The sliding door opens and the manager comes in, carrying two small plates. A waiter follows him, picking up their empty dinner plates, and leaving just as quickly as he arrived. The manager steps closer, placing one of the plates in front of each of them.

“Tiramisu on the house,” he remarks, gesturing at the two plates.

“Oh,” Jemma sighs joyfully, “it looks delicious.”

“We’re renowned for it,” the manager states proudly, before leaving the room.

Fitz grabs his fork and takes a bite of his dessert. “Tastes delicious, too!” he mumbles with a full mouth.

* * *

Jemma’s eyes wander around the room while Fitz pays the bill. She looks at the decorations on the walls, the dim light fixtures, the white tablecloth, the red roses in the beautiful crystal vase. The thought of leaving it all behind saddens her. It had been a perfect evening, a perfect birthday dinner, a perfect first date, a night of tears and laughter, of sad and happy memories, of honesty and intimacy. She wishes it didn’t have to end there.

“It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Fitz asks, and as if he had read her mind he adds, “How about we allow it to keep going for a while longer? I have an idea.”

Jemma can’t help but grin from ear to ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The Date, Part 2.


	11. They will hear me roar

They walk across a wooden bridge over a small lake in the almost deserted park, their fingers intertwined. The sun has almost completely set, but what remains of its light reveals that some of the leaves on the trees scattered across the neatly trimmed lawn are beginning to turn. The streetlights illuminate the trail in front of them. Their crunchy footsteps, water splashing in a fountain, and the distant noise of cars driving on a nearby street are the only sounds they hear.

It is a warm evening, but the slight breeze swirling around her makes Jemma shiver nonetheless. Fitz lets go of her hand and takes off his jacket, putting it over her shoulders instead.

He tucks his hands into his pockets and they continue walking. Jemma grabs the jacket’s collar, pulling it closer, enjoying his warmth emanating from the liner. She chuckles.

“Opening the door for me, pulling out my chair, giving me your jacket. It all seems so old-fashioned of us, doesn’t it?”

“Alright,” Fitz teases her, pretending to reach for his jacket, “I’ll take it back then. I’m a bit chilly myself.”

Jemma smirks at him, “Don’t you dare.”

They walk next to each other quietly for a while.

“It’s a beautiful park,” Jemma comments. “Reminds me of home a little bit.”

“Uh-hum,” Fitz replies, “same here.” He pauses and looks at her, while they continue on the footpath. “I didn’t know you visited Perthshire with your family.”

Jemma swallows, looking down at the ground, knowing full well where this information is coming from.

“Well, we only drove by it,” she eventually replies.

“Are you still thinking about it?” Fitz asks, kicking a small stone out of his way. “I mean, as a place where we could… settle down.”

“Yes,” Jemma replies without hesitation and yet sadness leaks into her voice. “I dream about it.”

She sighs, watching her feet take step after step on the trail in front of her. “I dreamt about it the other night actually. We were in our kitchen, preparing breakfast. The sun was shining through the window; our dog snuggled up in one corner…”

“We had a dog?” Fitz interrupts her excitedly.

“Yes,” she chuckles. “A Scottish Deerhound.”

“Those are huge!” Fitz exclaims.

Jemma smiles, looking up from the footpath and back at him. “Yes, but also very gentle.”

He returns her smile and lets her continue.

“So, the dog’s snuggled up in one corner, and our kids come down the stairs, a boy and a girl—how cliché—and they sit down, and we have breakfast, and we talk and laugh and…”

She stops in her tracks as anxiety once again takes hold of her, as her muscles tense up, her throat closes, her heart races, her eyes try in vain to hold back tears.

Fitz turns around to face her as soon as he notices that she has stopped.

“Jemma?” he asks, concerned.

She swallows and her breathing stutters when she exhales.

“Then everything around me crumbled to sand,” she whispers. “The house, the dog, the children…  _ you _ . Everything was gone. The sun had disappeared… Just sand and darkness… and I was back … _ there _ .”

She stares at the lake, hearing the fountain splashing in its middle.

“I was shaking when I woke up… I was so scared, Fitz.” Angry and desperate, she wipes away the tears running down her cheeks. “I feel so weak, Fitz. I’m so afraid. Of everything. Of  _ myself _ .”

“Jemma,” he tries to comfort her, placing his hands on her shoulders, his voice barely above a whisper.

She looks at him, into his deep blue eyes, and something inside of her knows this is the time.

“I tried to kill myself, Fitz,” she admits.

He inhales sharply; his eyes are begging her to tell him more.

“There was this canyon on Maveth,” she begins, gazing into his blue eyes. They’re like an anchor, giving her strength to recall her darkest hour. “Something about it… It kept drawing me back.”

She breathes slowly; takes the time she needs, and he listens patiently.

“When my phone died… the screen went black… everything went black.”

She swallows.

“Everything was dark and bleak and hopeless. And I… I ran.”

She closes her eyes and sees herself back on Maveth.

“I went to the canyon and I stood there…”

She inhales.

“… and I wanted to die.”

She exhales.

“I wanted it to be over.”

She opens her eyes, and sees his, shimmering, worrying.

“I was one step away, Fitz… One step away…”

A smile forces itself onto her lips.

“And then the sun came out. The sun I had started to doubt even existed… and I… I turned around… towards the light… and the portal opened.”

She chuckles.

“It just opened… just luck, coincidence.”

A sigh of relief.

“But, Fitz… I wanted to die… And in my nightmares… the astronauts… they tell me that I became like them.”

She shakes her head.

“Maybe they’re right… I gave up.”

She bites her lower lip.

“My phone died, and my hope died with it, and it tore me apart, and I gave up. I gave up like them. I  _ became _ like them.”

Her body starts to shiver, tremble, overcome by memories and emotions.

“And I feel so weak, Fitz. So ashamed. So angry at myself.”

She searches his eyes for help, for an answer.

“What if I can’t get over that, Fitz? What if that’s a part of me? This hopelessness? Now when I think about this dream I had, this dream of our future… I … I don’t know how I could possibly have that… how could I possibly have that future, those children? When I’m so weak. So hopeless. When  _ I’m _ the one crumbling to sand? I just… How can I…”

“Hey, Jemma… hey…” he interrupts her, cupping her face. “Look at me.”

He gazes into her eyes. “I wanted to die too, Jemma.”

She gasps, afraid to believe him.

“I followed every bloody trail to figure out what the monolith was,” he continues, never breaking his eye contact. “No matter how dangerous. I went to Morocco to haggle some kind of far-fetched deal with some terrorists and I knew  _ very well _ that they might just shoot me on the spot, but I  _ didn’t care _ .”

He pauses.

“Because part of me  _ wanted _ it to be over,  _ wanted _ that pain to go away. ‘Cause no matter  _ how much _ I tried to hold on to the hope that you were still alive, that part of me grew weaker and weaker.”

He’s breathing heavily, biting his lower lip.

“Remember when you asked me why we were all in the room when you came back through the portal?”

She nods weakly.

“It was because I had exhausted  _ every. single. _ theory I could come up with. Dead end after dead end. And all that was left was an ancient scroll with the word  _ death _ written on it. Like a knife in my chest.”

“And so I went into that room with a bloody shotgun and gunned the damn door down, and I screamed at the monolith to  _ do something _ . I  _ begged _ it to do something, to  _ take me. _ I  _ wanted _ it to take me like it had taken you. I wanted to  _ die _ in that moment. I  _ couldn’t  _ live anymore. I  _ wanted _ to die.”

He chuckles humorlessly, looking past her into the distance for a moment, before gazing back into her confused eyes.

“We wanted to die at the same moment, didn’t we?” he asks. “We lost hope at the same time.”

Somehow, the thought makes her smile.

“And the  _ only _ thing that saved  _ me _ , Jemma, were Coulson and the others prying me away from the monolith.”

His thumbs gently caress her cheeks. “But you,” he continues, “you saved  _ yourself _ .”

He smiles at her.

“So, who’s the weak one?” he asks. “Not you.  _ You’re _ the strongest person I know. What  _ you _ went through,  _ nobody _ can even imagine. But you went through it. You  _ survived _ that.”

Her mouth twitches, torn between smiling and crying.

“Don’t let that  _ one _ moment define you,” Fitz tells her. “There’s no shame in wanting to die after six months of isolation! You survived  _ six months _ by yourself at the other end of the galaxy! Maybe the sun made you turn around. Maybe that was coincidence and luck. But  _ you _ saved yourself!”

He brings his face closer to hers, holding hers gently but tightly in his hands.

“In that last moment, you had the  _ choice _ to take that final step or to turn around and face the sun.  _ You _ made that choice. You didn’t  _ have to _ . But you chose  _ the light _ . Even in that moment, you were still strong. You  _ are _ strong.”

He catches a single tear rolling down her cheek with his thumb.

“And just because you are scarred and scared right now and your strength is trying to hide, doesn’t mean you’re weak. You are a fighter, Jemma. That moment of wanting to jump, wanting to die, _that_ doesn’t define who you are. _Every other_ _moment_ during those six months, and every moment _after_ … _those_ are moments that define you.”

He takes another deep breath, moving his hands from her cheeks to her shoulders, squeezing them gently.

“Your children won’t see you as weak, Jemma. They will see your  _ strength _ , they will see your  _ determination _ . They  _ won’t _ see you crumble to sand.”

He smiles at her. “They will hear you roar!”

The laughter that escapes Jemma’s lips mixes with her tears, slowly transforming them from tears of anger and fear to tears of gratefulness and optimism.

She looks into Fitz’s eyes and sees nothing but love; his love for her, her love for him.

She cups his face, pulling him closer, allowing her lips to express how much his words, his honesty, his trust and belief mean to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The Date, part 3


	12. So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

They’re holding hands, slowly walking down the corridor that leads to her room at the Playground. Whenever Jemma looks at him, he has a smile lingering on his lips, and it causes her to beam with happiness.

“Here we are,” Jemma sighs, stopping in front of her door, not quite ready to let the evening end.

Fitz takes another step and turns on his heels to face her, his hand never letting go of hers.

He takes a deep breath. “Here we are.”

The way his eyes gaze at her makes her want to grab him and kiss him. Again. And again. The thought makes her stomach flutter nervously.

For a moment they just stare at each other in silence.

He swallows. “Could I come in for just one more moment?”

Jemma smiles from ear to ear. “Of course.”

She opens the door and steps inside.

“I… I haven’t given you your birthday gift yet,” Fitz says, following her and closing the door behind him.

“Fitz?” she exclaims, surprised. “But this whole evening. I mean…”

“Please,” he interrupts her, pulling out a flat square box from the inner pocket of his jacket. Jemma is surprised she hadn’t felt it when she was wearing the jacket at the park.

“It’s something I wanted you to have,” he says nervously, handing her the box.

Jemma’s heart is racing. She grabs the box, opening it slowly with trembling hands.

She gasps when she sees her grandmother’s necklace.

“It’s a replica,” Fitz mumbles, pointing at the jewelry box. “Mack helped me find this little jeweler in town… and I had some pictures of you wearing it… and…” His voice sounds far away as her mind focuses on the heirloom in her hands.

Her fingers carefully touch the familiar small silver rosebud. They glide under the pendant, slightly lifting it, allowing her to look at the golden thorny stem, curving around the simple silver chain, and the small diamond that decorates the end of the twine.

Jemma covers her mouth with a shaking hand as tears begin streaming down her face.

“Jemma,” Fitz whispers, and through a blurry curtain of tears she sees him lean closer.

“I’m sorry, Jemma.” His hands reach for her but he seems too afraid to touch her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He exhales. “Maybe this was a bad idea… I’m sorry… I thought…” He runs his fingers through his hair. “God, I’m not even sure what I thought anymore… I’m…”

“Fitz,” she interrupts him, lifting her eyes from the necklace and back to him, wiping away her tears. “I’m  _ not _ upset. I’m. … far from it. … I left the necklace for  _ you _ … to find it, and you … did, in a way. You brought it back to me.”

She smiles. “You’re trying to piece me back together.”

He wrinkles his forehead, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to piece you back together, Jemma.”

Confused, Jemma stares at him, watching him take a deep breath.

“Remember how I was after my brain injury? How I tried so  _ desperately _ to become the person I was before? How much pain it caused me? Us?”

She nods ever so slightly.

“It wasn’t until Daisy transformed… and she was scared, and she cried in my arms, saying that something was wrong with her and... I told her that  _ nothing _ was wrong with her, that she was just  _ different _ . And I  _ meant _ it… and all of a sudden I realized that the same was true for me… I realized that I  _ was _ different but that wasn’t a  _ bad _ thing. It was just the truth. I was,” he shrugs his shoulders trying to find the right words, “Fitz 2.0.”

She chuckles.

“And once I realized that,” he continues, “things got so much better.”

His eyes seem to be smiling at her as he speaks.

“I  _ can’t _ piece you back together, Jemma. You will  _ never _ be the person you were  _ before _ … But it doesn’t mean you’re  _ less _ . It means you’re  _ more _ .”

Her eyes fill with tears and her lips twitch, as happiness and sadness once again seem to fight for control.

Her voice is shaking when she asks, “Simmons 2.0?”

He nods, and she feels his eyes staring into her soul.

“Maybe you don’t feel it yet,” he says, “but this will make you stronger, Jemma. It already has… I’m not trying to take you back to who you were…” he sighs, “but moving forward doesn’t mean that you have to leave  _ everything _ behind. Some pieces you  _ should _ hold on to, and your grandmother’s necklace… it’s one of those pieces, because she’s something that  _ hasn’t _ changed, that doesn’t  _ need to _ change.”

She gazes at the necklace, then back at him.

“Could you help me put it on?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

He takes the jewelry box from her and carefully removes the necklace. Then he puts the box down on the dresser next to the door while Jemma turns around, lifting up her hair with both hands.

His hands reach around her, each holding one end of the silver chain. She feels his warm breath on her neck as he moves his face closer to better see the lock and close it. His fingers rest on the side of her neck for a moment, barely touching her sensitive skin. She closes her eyes at the sensation as a shiver runs down her spine.

She turns around to face him again, carefully touching the pendant, looking into his eyes, a question burning on her tongue.

“Are you going to like her?” she asks. “This Simmons 2.0?”

She feels her heart rapidly beating in her chest as she anticipates his answer.

“No,” he says, his voice deep and unfamiliarly husky. His hand reaches for her, letting his thumb gently glide across her cheekbone.

“I’ll love her,” he whispers, gazing into her eyes, and she feels as if time slows down around them.

He smiles. “I love  _ every _ version of you, Jemma… You’re like that necklace,” he says, touching the precious pendant with his index finger. “Like a rose… growing, opening up, revealing more of your mysterious secrets.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting his hand gently rest wrapped around her neck. “And you might have some thorns, too, but they’re not there to hurt others… they’re there to  _ defend _ yourself; they’re part of your  _ strength _ .”

He takes a deep breath, and she feels as if she has been holding hers the entire time he has spoken. “But no matter what, even though it changes… it will always be a rose… like you. The very  _ core _ of you hasn’t changed.”

He smiles, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the thin skin behind her ear, making her tingle. “I don’t think it ever will. But you’re evolving… and with every version, you get new features. And I love  _ knowing _ you as much as  _ getting to know _ you.  _ Every _ .  _ single. _ facet of you. Old and new.”

She cups his face, gazing into his eyes before planting a gentle kiss onto his lips. “Oh Leopold Fitz,” she sighs. “You’re an engineer. When did you become such a poet?”

He chuckles, placing his hands on her hips. “Poet? Nah. Didn’t rhyme.”

She laughs, rocking slightly forward, allowing their hips to touch.

“Hey, but I can try,” Fitz continues. “Let me see. My English ro…”

Her lips stop him mid-word, and he exhales sharply. His hands reach for the small of her back, pulling her even closer. For a split second, Jemma breaks their kiss, only to allow their lips to meet again. Softer this time. Slowly. Savoring the tingle of their lips brushing against each other, the electric sensation of their tongues touching, savoring every moment.

But with every wave of their lips, their tongues melting together, the ocean of passion raging within her grows stormier, and his lips, his hands, his body let her know he is feeling the same.

His hands move up to her shoulder blades, pulling her closer, while the force of his eager mouth pushes her head backwards.

Guided by instinct, yet with no doubt in her mind, her hands reach for the top button of his shirt.

His hands suddenly grab hers, breaking their passionate kiss, and she stares at him, confused and out of breath.

“Jemma,” he exhales sharply, still holding on to her hands, “I don’t want you to rush. I don’t want you to move faster than maybe you should.”

“Oh, Fitz,” she chuckles. “I  _ know _ I’m still healing from everything that has happened. I  _ know _ I still need time with a lot of things… but not  _ this _ . Not  _ us _ . That part of me  _ has _ healed…  and you’re one of the biggest reasons why.”

She smiles, gazing into his eyes.

“It’s been over ten years, Fitz… Ten years of us being idiots and not realizing what was right in front of us. Ten years of not having the courage to talk about what could be between us. I don’t want to waste anymore time… I know  _ exactly _ what I want. What I want  _ right now _ . It most certainly doesn’t feel like rushing to me.”

Jemma tries to see beyond his ocean of blue, tries to look into his soul, tries to figure out what lies beneath his silence.

“What do  _ you _ want, Fitz?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

His eyes become glassy. Still holding her hands between his, he gently caresses them with his thumbs.

“You,” he finally whispers. “I want  _ you _ .”

She smiles, freeing her hands and resting them on his chest instead. Slowly, she raises herself on her toes, inching her face closer to his.

“I'm right here,” she breathes against his lips.

But he doesn’t move. His hands aren’t touching her. His lips aren’t closing the narrow gap separating them.

Jemma cups his face, searching his eyes for an answer. She sees fear and worry, but also something more, something brighter: love, longing.

“Fitz? What's wrong?”

She feels his hands on her hips, but his touch is so hesitant that part of her thinks she’s imagining it.

His lips part ever so slightly, and he lets out a nervous sigh. “If we do this,” he says barely above a whisper, “everything changes. We can't go back.”

She smiles, tears filling her eyes.

“Fitz.” His name escapes her lips like a plea. Gently, she strokes his cheeks. “Everything  _ has _ already changed. We  _ can’t _ go back. You said it yourself. We have changed.  _ Are _ changing. Evolving… New facets.” Her smile tries to reach out to him. “This is Fitzsimmons 2.0. It’s a new version. An  _ exciting _ new version.”

He sucks in his lower lip, then exhales slowly. “Using my own arguments against me?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips.

“Well,” Jemma says, shrugging her shoulders, “they were rather convincing.”

He chuckles. Then his expression becomes serious. She sees the same longing and passion she saw earlier. And it excites her to watch him explore her body with his eyes, imagining that his hands, his lips, his body will soon follow.

She’s not disappointed when his hands sneak around her waist, pulling her against him, while his lips close the narrow gap between them. They’re soft, wet, hungry, and hers crave him just as much. She inhales his warm breath, and a shiver runs through her body, surging energy that collects warm and tingly in her midsection as their lips continue to dance.

She reaches for the buttons of his shirt again and this time he doesn't stop her. Instead his hands push hers aside as he quickly and urgently opens the buttons himself, stripping the shirt over his shoulders and simultaneously kicking off his shoes while her fingers run through his hair, grabbing the back of his head to draw him closer.

* * *

_ The sunlight shines through the kitchen window. She’s standing at the counter waiting for the tea to steep, while her eyes wander across the room. Their dog is snuggled up on his bed in the corner. Fitz is sitting at the table, his head buried in a book. _

_ “What about Peggy?” he asks, raising his head to look at her. “You love Peggy Carter,” he adds, gesturing at Jemma with his hand. “Plus, there’s also Peggy Whitson… I mean. Biochemist. First female commander of the International Space Station. That’s a good name!... I’ll put it on the list.” _

_ His returns his focus to his book and the small list lying next to it. Jemma smiles, her hand instinctively reaching for her growing belly. _

_ The doorbell rings. _

Jemma opens her eyes, a smile still lingering on her lips.

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. … Beep. Beep. Beep. _ The sound of the doorbell rings in her ear.

Fitz is lying next to her, his hand draped across her naked stomach.

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. … Beep. Beep. Beep. _

“Ugh,” Fitz groans, pressing his face into the pillow.

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Jemma finally wakes enough to notice her alarm clock. She turns around to reach it and turn it off. Fitz’s hand slides off her tummy. She looks over her shoulder and when she is certain that he went straight back to sleep, she quietly slips out of bed. Putting her spy training to good use, she carefully opens her drawers and pulls out some clothes. One eye on her bed, ensuring that she doesn’t wake him, she dresses and sneaks out the door.

* * *

Jemma is staring at the teapot in front of her on the kitchen counter while her mind recounts the previous day… and night.

Daisy’s chipper “Hey!” interrupts her thoughts.

Jemma turns around, unable to hide a smile. “Good morning.”

“So,” Daisy asks, “how was your date?”

“Oh,” Jemma stutters, trying to suppress a grin. “Quite lovely really.”

“ _ Lovely? _ ” Daisy exclaims. “Umm, you’ll have to give me more than ‘lovely.’”

“Do I now?” Jemma teases her friend. “And why’s that?”

“Uh,” Daisy replies, “because I helped you pick out your outfit and gave you some kick-ass dating advice. That’s why.”

“Hmm,” Jemma contemplates.

“Oh, come on, Simmons,” Daisy pleads. “Give me something!”

Jemma smirks. “Let’s just say it was the date that kept on giving.”

She turns her back on Daisy, grabs two cups from the shelf and pours the tea, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing. When she has collected herself, she picks up the cups, turns around, and savors Daisy’s wide-eyed stare.

“I’ll see you later, Daisy,” Jemma grins, leaving the kitchen to head back to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who want to know what happened when the 'camera faded to black' (so to speak), check out the (*caugh* M-rated) [Deleted Scene "The things we wish we knew"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8380186)


	13. Bury my heart on the coals, bury my heart next to yours

Of course, the upgrade from Simmons to Simmons 2.0, from Fitzsimmons to Fitzsimmons 2.0 didn’t magically cure her. She hadn’t expected it would. She still sometimes woke up with nightmares. She still sometimes feared the darkness and the silence. She still sometimes heard the astronauts calling for her.

But more often than not, she felt better, stronger, cured to the extent it would ever be possible.

She still needed more time to heal, to like herself, to like Simmons 2.0.

But she  _ loved _ Fitzsimmons 2.0, loved holding hands with Fitz as they strolled down the corridors of the Playground, loved stealing kisses. Loved doing all that while the others pretended not to notice. Loved sharing her nights with him—sometimes talking, sometimes cuddling, often passionate.

Fitz seemed to know instinctively when all she needed was for him to sit with her in silence, when to hold her, when to give her space.

The first time she told him that she’d like the evening to herself, he happily agreed, smiling at her with a smile so mysterious she couldn’t figure out what it meant. It wasn’t until later, sitting on her bed reading, a steaming cup of tea next to her, that she realized he had been happy to see that she was  _ ready _ to be alone,  _ wanted _ to be alone, didn’t fear it anymore. That night, the smile looking back at her in the mirror was proud and confident.

* * *

In mid-November, Jemma’s parents asked her to come home for Christmas during a video chat. They obviously didn’t know the details of what had happened to their daughter, but they had learned enough to know it had been another close call and were longing to spend time with her.

When she confessed that she and Fitz were dating, her father asked her mum cheekily, “So who gets the pool?” Apparently, the news didn’t come as a surprise. And after that her parents quickly suggested that Fitz and his mum should tag along.

* * *

It was three and a half months after her birthday, three and a half months after they had upgraded their relationship to a different, exciting new version. It had been a few wonderful days of long overdue conversations with their parents, taking walks in the snowy landscape, breathing the crisp winter air, kissing under the mistletoe, and snuggling up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate.

Jemma’s mum and Aileen had cooked a magnificent dinner Christmas Eve, and as if time had been turned back to their childhoods, they spent Christmas morning in their pajamas, unwrapping gifts next to the Christmas tree. Aileen rolled her eyes, shaking her head and suppressing a grin, when her son’s eyes widened and he exclaimed “Sweet!” in delight over the signed copy of Owen Davey’s  _ Mad About Monkeys _ that Jemma got him. Jemma loved the Tardis teapot he gave her.

* * *

It was close to midnight now, and they’re cuddling under a blanket on the couch, Jemma comfortably nestled against Fitz’s body, a tablet propped up on her lap to watch a movie. Her dad sits reading in an armchair as the burning wood crackles peacefully in the fireplace.

Her dad suddenly yawns and closes his book. He stretches his arms to the sky and gets up from his seat. “I think it’s time for me to call it a night as well. Your mums certainly had the right idea earlier. Good night, you two.”

“Good night, dad,” Jemma says, smiling at her father at the same time as Fitz wishes him  “G’night” as well.

“You wanna head to bed?” Fitz asks a little later when their movie has finished.

She turns around to face him. “Not quite yet,” she says and gets up from the couch. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to do and I think tonight is the night to do it.”

“Okay,” Fitz mumbles, confused.

“I’ll be right back,” Jemma says. “You stay here.”

When she returns, he is still sitting on the couch, staring at the floor, resting his lower arms on his thighs, his legs jittering nervously. Jemma frowns sympathetically, realizing that she didn’t give him  _ any _ clue as to what to expect.

She sits down next to him and hands him the printouts. He takes them and stares at the unfamiliar faces before giving her a questioning look. “Are these--?” he asks.

Jemma sighs. “Commander Frank Taylor, Lieutenant Commander Geoffrey Brubaker, Lieutenant Brian Austin, and Lieutenant William Daniels,” she explains, pointing at the men in the four pictures. “My ghosts,” she adds quietly.

“You looked them up,” Fitz notes matter-of-factly.

She nods. “I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner.” She shakes her head. “It’s strange… they look so different from what I imagined.”

“Why’d you print them out?” he asks.

Jemma swallows before answering his question. “Because I’ve come so far, and yet I still haven’t let go of their ghosts… which  _ really _ means I haven’t let go of  _ my _ ghosts. But it’s time. I’m ready.”

She takes the pictures from him and stands up. Slowly, she walks to the fireplace, before turning back to face him. Her eyes plead with him to follow her, and he gets up and walks towards her.

Jemma bends down and carefully throws the pictures into the fire. The hungry flames grab for the printouts, and as their edges turn dark and curl up, as the fire eats away the faces of men she didn’t know and somehow knew at the same time, Jemma feels her ghosts turn to ash and flicker from view.

“May you find peace,” she whispers at the smoke rising from the ashes, a tear running down her cheek. “Here on Earth… You deserve that.”

She straightens back up, standing next to Fitz, and grabs his hand, still staring at the dancing flames.

She inhales deeply, fills her lungs with air, feeling alive and free. “It’s like I put my heart on these coals as well,” she observes. “Like the fire is burning away my pain, my past… It’s cleansing, really,” she adds and smiles.

Fitz squeezes her hand silently.

Jemma turns to him, taking both his hands into hers, looking directly into his eyes that shimmer like glass in front of her, illuminated by the flickering flames. “When I was on Maveth, Fitz,” she recalls, “I started to believe that the cosmos was against us. That we were cursed… That everything around us kept causing us so much pain, beat us black and blue.”

She chuckles. “But, if I think of it  _ now _ . We’ve  _ always _ come out the other side, haven’t we? One of us… Both of us… We always found a way.”

Her hand reaches for his face and he tilts his head to mold his cheek into her palm. “You keep telling me that I’m strong, Fitz… That I made it through… And you’re right: I  _ am _ strong.”

She takes a deep breath. “But you don’t seem to realize that you were the one to remind me of my strength. You were my  _ hope _ . You were my  _ light _ … I stood by that canyon, ready to jump, and when I felt the sun’s warmth on my shoulders, I thought I felt  _ you _ .  _ Your _ touch, your  _ hope _ .”

She chuckles. “This may be the  _ least _ scientific thing I have ever said, Fitz, but part of me thought that… you had  _ sent _ me the sun, that you  _ were _ the sun.”

A smile flashes across his face, and then he shakes his head. “You don’t need me to be your sun, Jemma… You’re an entire  _ solar system _ all by yourself. Magnificent and mysterious and filled with incredible forces.”

He looks at her more seriously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The cosmos can’t beat you. You’re unstoppable… invincible.”

She inhales sharply. “I think maybe together we are. Unstoppable, that is… and invincible.”

She presses her lips together, her heart wanting to explode, her eyes nearly overflowing with happiness. “You’ve been here for me every step of the way, Fitz… You were patient and thoughtful and… You were  _ you _ . You never allowed me to let go. Never allowed me to give up on myself.”

She cups his face with both hands, leaning in, gazing into his eyes. “I know I’m not quite there yet,” she admits. “I know I still have a ways to go, but I… I will hold on with  _ all _ of my might,  _ all _ of my strength and determination… and all I’m asking is that you stay by my side, and promise me we’ll be alright. Because you may think that I could do it all on my own, and maybe you’re right, but I don’t  _ want to _ . I want  _ you _ .  _ With me _ .  _ Always _ .”

He puts his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “Where else would I want to be but by your side?”

She smiles at him before resting her head and hands against his chest while they stand in front of the fire. She hears his heartbeat and it feels as if their hearts are beating in unison. Next to each other. With each other. Inseparable.

She takes another look at the flickering flames, the serene sparks that have freed her from the ghosts that haunted her. She looks up at him, beaming with love and happiness, as the flames spark a new idea, a new beginning, a vision of the future, a dream she had on Maveth that maybe didn’t have to remain a dream anymore.

“Fitz,” she whispers, “will you marry me?”

He stares at her silently, his eyes searching hers, welling up. Then he begins to smile, ear to ear, before letting out a single loud laugh.

Jemma can’t take her eyes off him, still waiting for an answer. “Fitz?” she finally pleads.

He cups her face, kissing her briefly. When he breaks the kiss, his eyes seem to sparkle, emanating joy. “I’m  _ not _ wearing a kilt to the wedding!” he says sternly, grinning widely.

She laughs, while he keeps talking, planting kiss after kiss on her lips in between each sentence. “And we’ll move to Perthshire… And we’ll have as many kids as you want.”

“Two’s plenty,” Jemma tries to interject.

“And we’ll have a dog,” he continues, kissing her once again. “And a monkey…And we’ll name him Darwin… and--”

“ _ Fitz _ ,” she exclaims a little louder to get his attention.

“Mmm?” he mutters, still holding her face in his hands, still beaming down at her.

“We’re  _ not _ getting a monkey,” Jemma resolves, trying in vain to look serious.

Fitz chuckles, before repeating, “I’m  _ not _ wearing a kilt to the wedding.”

“Seems like a fair compromise,” Jemma says quietly, smiling at him.

More seriously, gazing into his eyes, she adds. “So, it’s settled then?”

“Yes,” Fitz exclaims enthusiastically, bringing his face so close to hers that she can feel his warm breath against her skin. “Dr. Dr. Jemma Simmons, biochemist, I  _ will _ marry you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!
> 
> Additional scene: [Rules of Engagement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8424562)
> 
> So, considering that Fitz will [most likely wear a kilt to their wedding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8388841), do you think he'll end up getting his monkey? I may have to write a few more deleted scenes :)


	14. Epilogue: We'll live a long life

The wind is howling outside their little cottage and Jemma can hear the rain slashing against the bathroom window. It had been the third time that night she had gotten up, and as usual Pygmy Puff had followed her and curled up into the fluffy little black ball of fur that she was on the rug in front of the sink until Jemma was done.

She had done the same when Jemma was pregnant with Peggy; followed Jemma around wherever she went. Fitz joked that maybe their little rescue was a trained midwife. Now they were waiting for Baby Nr. 2, a boy, and like before, Pygmy Puff had become Jemma’s personal miniature-sized guardian.

Jemma sighs. _At least it means I don’t have to go to the bathroom all by myself every other hour. The rainstorm outside certainly doesn’t help my pregnancy-induced bladder issues._

She washes her hands, opens the bathroom door, turns off the lights, and steps into the hallway, Pygmy Puff right by her side.

As she comes closer to their bedroom, she notices the shimmer from Fitz’s nightstand lamp and hears him speak quietly.

A smile flashes across Jemma’s face when she reaches the doorway. “I _thought_ I heard someone sneak out of her room while I was in the bathroom,” she says, looking down at her little toddler girl, who is clutching the hand of her beloved sock-puppet, Daisy’s one-and-only attempt to do something “artsy and crafty with needles and shit” for her godchild.

“The storm woke her up,” Fitz explains, sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his thighs, leaning slightly forward to be closer to their almost four-year-old daughter.

“I’m scared,” Peggy adds. “I don’t like it.” And all Jemma sees are big blue eyes reaching out to her.

Jemma awkwardly squats down to be at Peggy’s eye-level, her growing belly and Pygmy Puff trying to jump up on her slightly hindering her efforts.

“I know, Monkeybutt,” Jemma whispers, giving Peggy’s hand a little squeeze. “It doesn’t feel good to be scared.”

Peggy shakes her head vehemently.

“You know what being scared is, Peggy?” she asks, and Peggy shyly shakes her head. Jemma smiles at her daughter, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s the same thing as ‘anxiety.’ And it happens to a lot of people, even grown-ups. It’s your body reacting to something that it doesn’t understand. Your brain isn’t sure if something is safe or dangerous, so it automatically assumes that it could be something dangerous and tries to protect you.”

“My brain?” Peggy asks curiously.

“Yes,” Jemma replies. “It’s the part of the brain called the ‘amygdala.’”

Peggy giggles hearing the strange word.

“Sounds funny, doesn’t it?” Jemma agrees. “It’s really not very big and it sort of looks like an almond. And when it thinks you are in danger it switches on and makes you want to either fight whatever could be dangerous or run away from it. And it makes sure your body has everything it needs to do that, like enough oxygen and adrenaline. And some of the things that happen are that your heart beats faster, and maybe you feel a little dizzy, or your tummy might feel weird, or your muscles might be really tense. The amygdala makes all of those things happen _really_ quickly, without really checking if there is _actually_ something dangerous.”

Peggy looks at her, slightly confused.

“Hey,” Fitz chimes in, “remember when I made… _tried_ to make… breakfast the other day, but the toast in the toaster got too brown and started smoking and the fire alarm went off?”

Peggy nods.

“Well, there was no actual fire,” Fitz continues, “but the fire alarm couldn’t _tell_ if the smoke came from a fire or from toast. It went off because it thought there _could_ be a fire.”

“And that’s how the amygdala works, too,” Jemma picks up their conversation. “It sometimes switches on when it _thinks_ there could be a danger, even though there _isn’t_ any. And it doesn’t always feel good, but it’s something completely normal.”

“The wind makes me not feel good,” Peggy tries to put her emotions into words. “And the rain… it’s loud!”

Jemma gently strokes Peggy’s cheek. “I was scared of the wind once,” she tells her daughter, whose eyes widen at her mother’s confession.

“I was _far_ away from here,” Jemma continues, “ _all_ by myself… and it sometimes sounded as if the wind was whispering to me. And that was scary.”

Jemma smiles encouragingly. “But the truth is, Buttercup… it was just the wind. And sometimes, the wind wasn’t scary at all. Sometimes it brushed against me, and it felt nice, like when I tuck your hair behind your ear. That’s nice, right?”

A smile flashes across Peggy’s face and she nods enthusiastically.

“It reminded me of your dad,” Jemma admits, glancing briefly at Fitz, whose eyes emanate admiration for his wife’s storytelling. “And then the wind wasn’t scary.”

Jemma’s ears pick up the rain slashing against the bedroom window. “And it’s the same with the rain, really,” she continues. “Sometimes, we _think_ the rain is scary, but when I was far away, it didn’t rain much. And then one time it did, and I went outside, and the rain tickled me.”

She reaches out her fingers, tickling Peggy’s belly, making her giggle.

“Do you remember when we went to the zoo?” Jemma asks.

“Yes,” Peggy exclaims excitedly, “and we saw the monkeys!”

Fitz covers his mouth with the back of his fist, attempting in vain to suppress a laugh.

Jemma chuckles. “Yes, when we saw the monkeys… you really _are_ your daddy’s daughter.” She pauses briefly. “But do you also remember how you jumped in the big puddles there?”

“Yes!” their daughter exclaims.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Jemma asks, and Peggy nods enthusiastically. “And if it hadn’t rained,” Jemma continues, “there wouldn’t have _been_ any puddles… I know things can be scary and sometimes we don’t even know _why_ they scare us… and that’s okay. But know that you don’t have to be scared of the wind and rain. You’re safe here in our house. And your daddy and me, we’re here and we will help you feel better.”

Jemma takes a deep breath. She looks at Fitz and then back at Peggy. “How about we explain it to you some more tomorrow, and for _tonight_ , you can stay with us?”

“Really?” Fitz asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Jemma confirms. “I’ve always said that under _exceptional_ circumstances, I will _not_ be opposed to co-sleeping.”

“Hey,” Fitz raises both hands, “you don’t have to convince _me_. You know I’m all _for_ the snuggles.”

Jemma shakes her head ever so slightly and turns back to her daughter, patting Peggy gently on the shoulder. “So, hop on in and snuggle with Mummy and Daddy, okay?”

“And Monkey Brother?” Peggy asks, her big blue eyes wide open.

Jemma smiles. “Yes, and Monkey Brother.”

“Can I give him a kiss?” Peggy asks, beaming with happiness.

“Sure, Monkeybutt,” Jemma replies, straightening her body slightly to give Peggy better access to her round belly. Carefully, she pushes Pygmy Puff to the side to ensure that Peggy can accomplish her task without being showered with distracting wet puppy kisses.

Peggy gives Fitz her sock-puppet, and places her two small hands on Jemma’s belly, planting a gentle kiss against the stretched fabric of Jemma’s shirt. She keeps her mouth close to Jemma’s stomach and says, “I love you, Monkey Brother! And if you have… ant-ay-itty, then I’ll help you not be scared. And mummy and daddy. And Pygmy Puff and Darwin, too!”

“Darwin?” Fitz snorts. “You mean the world’s biggest coward?”

“Shhh,” Jemma tries to silence him.

But Fitz isn’t phased. “Where is that dog anyways?” he asks.

Jemma shrugs her shoulders. “Probably hiding under the bed.”

Fitz bends as far forward as he can without falling off the bed and pulls up the comforter, glancing under the bed, where two big brown eyes stare back at him.

“You’re 100 pounds, dude. How’d you even get down there?” he asks.

“Where there’s a desperate dog afraid of the wind, there’s a way,” Jemma jokes.

Fitz chuckles and sits back up, smiling at his daughter. “Peggy, you’re _much_ braver than Darwin. In fact, I think Darwin needs _your_ help, not the other way around.”

“I’m brave like mummy!” Peggy exclaims excitedly, grabbing the sock-puppet Fitz had set down and climbing to the middle of the bed.

“You sure are,” Fitz says, a smile lingering on his lips as his eyes fix on Jemma, who’s walking to her side of the bed.

“So, did Monkey Brother keep you up?” Fitz asks Jemma, tucking his legs back under the blanket while Jemma pulls her side over herself and Peggy, who already seems half-asleep.

“Oh yes,” Jemma sighs, letting her hand glide over her belly. “He’s a bladder kicker… He better be _really_ cute when he comes out, to make up for causing me such sleepless nights before he’s even born.”

“Well,” Fitz replies, turning off the light, “taking our combined gene pool into consideration, I’d say chances are pretty high.”

Jemma smiles and rolls onto her side, draping her arm over their daughter. Pygmy Puff jumps onto the blanket and rolls up by her feet and Jemma hears Darwin’s quiet snores from under the bed. Fitz’s hand lands silently on her lower arm, stroking it gently. She feels their second little monkey squirming in her belly before finally settling in, and overcome by inner peace and happiness, she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

_And the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view  
_ _And we'll live a long life_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: [Anxiety in Kids](http://www.heysigmund.com/anxiety-in-kids/): This is a topic dear to my heart, because it is one of my biggest concerns that I will (or rather have already) passed my anxiety down to my daughter. Most of the info here is taken from the article in the link.
> 
> Note 2: I know you are dying to learn more about Darwin and Pygmy Puff. And there's a whole little backstory to it, that basically developed out of [Thelatenightstoryteller and myself combining our two "Fitzsimmons will get a dog" head canons](http://the-nerdy-stjarna.tumblr.com/post/152254697154/thelatenightstoryteller-the-nerdy-stjarna) (This discussion was later expanded in private chats :) ). The backstory didn't quite fit within the flow of the current chapter, though, so I have posted it as a separate fic: ["The dogs we want to know"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8412547)
> 
> Note 3: Possible additional scenes and little ficlets that fit this universe:  
> [Ten points for Monkeybutt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8413117)  
> [Crumbs through the ages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8434309)
> 
> Note 4: I hope you loved reading this fanfic as much as I loved writing it. I've become quite attached to this story. So, my question to you guys is: Would you like me to just kind of keep this universe going? Adding more deleted scenes, additional/future scenes, scenes with a different POV (all in separate little fics within the same series)?
> 
> Please, leave a comment and let me know. You could even let me know if there's something specific you'd like to hear from this universe and I'll see if I can make it happen.


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